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OF THE 


COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


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THE LIBRARY OF CHOICE FICTION 


MYSTERIES OF THE COURT 

OF 

NAPOLEON III 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF GILBERT AUGUSTIN-THIERRY 

BY 

E. I. R. AND M. A. B. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, 

In the year Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-Two, by 

LAIRD & LEE, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


To my Friend and Colleague 
Francis Chevassu 


One day I heard a Chief of Police under the Second 
Empire, tell the mysterious and sensational adventure 
which is here narrated. 

I dare make it the subject of my novel ; but I thought 
best to disguise the names of the different personages 
who have taken part in this, alas, too true a story. 


TO THE READER 


The present volume is the first of a series of studies, 
in which I wish to portray the men and events of the 
Second Empire. 

I dare say, some of my readers, those who know how 
to read between the lines, will recognize La Savelli, the 
Prince of Carpegna, the Count Besnard, and especially 
that enigmatic personage, the State-Minister. 

But forgetfulness, that true shroud, common to us all, 
has so long hidden them from view : they are no more, 
neither for love, nor hate. So we may, without harming 
any one, restore them to life for the time being. Besides, 
I claim that the Historical Romance has a right to call 
back to life for an instant ghosts that form a part of 
History. 

As for me, I have served that Empire ; I have respected 
it, thinking it was glorious ; I have lamented its fall. 
Faithful to my youthful illusions, I did undertake the 
pilgrimage to that lonely Chiselhurst where he who 
loved France so unwisely sleeps the sleep of exiled 
kings. I looked dreamily on this lonely sepulcher, and 
before this forlorn tomb I had a clear vision of the 
Irreparable. 

This is more than sufficient evidence that the follow- 
ing pages are neither an apology nor a malicious attack. 

The Author. 




PROLOGUE 

BELLA 















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MYSTERIES 

OF THE 

Court of Napoleon III 


I T was dark ; a heavy mist was spreading over 
the city of London — it was a mild, rainy 
evening in April. That year — 1854 — the early 
spring had caused the orchards to bloom, and 
make almost sunny, humid England, that land 
where, as an old madrigal has it, “ So green 
are the lawns, so blonde the hair, so blue the 
gentle eyes, so rosy the smiles.” 

At the gilded tower of Westminster Abbey, 
the big clock had just struck seven, and the 
busy noises were quieting down. Around St. 
Paul, the buzzing city was getting benumbed ; 
the Fleet street banker was closing his office, 
happy at the thought of “ sweet, sweet home.” 
In the Strand the gas was being lighted, and 
already from Haymarket to Oxford street the 
superb show windows of the jewelers and 
silversmiths were brilliantly illuminated. A 
little while longer and the lawns of St. James’ 

<») 


12 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


Park would be invaded by the numerous 
homeless vagabonds who sleep outdoors. In 
Regent street, on the left towards the Circus, 
the Restaurant Arditti, an Italian resort with a 
festive fame, was noticeable, being brilliantly 
lighted, and apparently well patronized. As 
usual its private rooms were full of couples en 
bonne fortune — questionable men and women, 
who, doubtless, emptied many a bottle in the 
course of an evening. British fashion ! 

On that particular night one of the private 
rooms on the first floor was occupied by a very 
different kind of a couple : two men sat at a 
table, anxious and quiet. 

One of them was about forty years old ; tall 
and strong, he had long brown hair, and wore 
a thick beard ; but his miserable, threadbare 
garments spoke of hard times : he looked like 
one of those starving professors of literature or 
music, who, from all parts of the world, invade 
the city of London, though its steps are hard 
to climb, and its bread, so arrogantly given, 
cruelly hurts the receiver’s mouth. 

Just now, he was busy eating large mouth- 
fuls of ham, roast beef, oxtail, etc. — the dainties 
of any English palace. Beer and Moselle wine 
were also gulped down the throat of the silent 
eater. The other, almost an old man, was 
looking at the big eater, and scarcely touched 
the viands spread before him. This one was a 


BELLA 


13 


gentleman ; his face was carefully shaved, his 
bald head had a crown of gray hair, and his 
dress was irreproachable in cut and texture. 
With his black coat and white cravat, he looked 
like an archdeacon giving praise, in convivial 
company, to the Almighty for having created 
the grapevine. But the brightness of his eyes, 
his bronzed complexion and lively gestures 
told of foreign birth. 

“ Per Bacco! ” the hairy man said, with a 
heavy sigh ; “ Che pranza ! Oh! ver ament e 
stupenda .” 

“ Pardon me, Marino,” said the other, inter- 
rupting him ; “ the waiter in attendance is an 
Italian ; let us talk in French, and be prudent.” 

The ragged man bowed, without interrupting 
his occupation. 

“ Then it is something serious, my Lord?” 

“ Yes, very serious, my dear fellow,” 

“ Ebbene ! Let us speak French, then, though 
it be a nasal, semibarbaric jargon, as our great 
Alfieri has so rightly named it. Ah ! how com- 
fortable I feel here : a cuisine worthy of Api- 
cius, wine which would have enchanted Horace, 
and the most generous Mecenas smiling on me! 
Then,” added he, lowering his voice, “ here, 
at least, are no spies, no police, none of the hor- 
rors of Monsieur Bonaparte’s police. Ah ! this 
Monsieur Bonaparte!” 

The man began again picking at his plate, 


14 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


his stomach certainly making a provision for 
the next day. 

“ Have you received any news from the 
gentlemen of the ‘Young Italy ?’" abruptly 
asked the old man, the one whom Marino called 
“ my Lord ! " He had pronounced those words 
with a sneering and disdainful tone. 

“ None/’ replied his companion. “ Complete 
silence, dunque great designs/' 

“ Or, rather, great apostasy, you simpleton/' 

“ Oh! my Lord!" 

“You, young men of this generation, do you 
ever read the magazines published in Switzer- 
land or Germany? No? Well, your Mazzini 
is writing again. He not only borrows money 
from people, but boldly plunders their thoughts ; 
it is a new wrinkle in his banditism. Now, as 
I said, the illustrious Joseph has begun to write. 
Oh ! what a cursed hypocrite ! Liberty with 
Christ ; freedom through the gospel, etc., etc. 
— a wretched imitation of Gioberti. The Vati- 
can is probably going to send him his benedic- 
tion. Amen! I say it again, it is downright 
apostasy ! " 

Marino straightened up, and, in an emphatic 
tone, he cried: “ Renegade! He, Rome’s deliv- 
erer — its glorious defender? Never!" 

“And what about me?" his Lordship re- 
torted, and rising excitedly, threw his napkin 
on the table. “ Was I not there also during 


BELLA 


15 


the siege of Rome? Was I not a member of 
your Parliament and a soldier at the service of 
Italy ? I was not spouting speeches, it is true ; 
I was fighting behind the Portese barricade, 
covered with wounds, and gasping for breath.’' 

“ Oh ! Certainly, certainly,” said Marino, try- 
ing to calm his excitement; “your Lordship 
has behaved nobly. A hero worthy of old 
times — a Codes, a second Mars, a knight 
deserving a place in the Capitol.” 

“You must be mistaken, my dear, since 
your Mazzinians reject me ; I am in their eyes, 
it seems, a worthless man, a coward and a trai- 
tor. Yes, a traitor! This word has already 
been applied to me. I know it. Ungrateful 
country ! ” 

“ Pshaw ! Countries are all ungrateful ! But 
as Pasta, the divine, used to sing, Dolce in- 
grata patria — ungrateful but nevertheless so 
dear !” 

A profound silence followed this quotation, 
and the “ knight worthy of the Capitol” lay 
down on a divan. After a while, he asked : 

“ But tell me, yes or no, have you received 
any news ? ” 

“Well, yes; I have,” said Marino, coming 
near, with a mysterious manner. “ Do you 
remember a man who used to serve under 
you in the Legion of the Reds — a tall, brave 
fellow, a man called Pianori ? ” 


1 6 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

The answer came unhesitatingly : 

“No. Upon my word, I know nothing — 
nothing about him at all.” 

Just at that moment, the piercing voice of 
a newsboy reached their ears. It cried : 

“ Evening papers! Important dispatch from 
France ! ” 

At the same time a rumor was coming up 
from Regent street. 

The newsboy continued shouting : “ Das- 

tardly attack on the French Emperor! ” 

The Italians looked at each other ; and his 
Lordship rushed to the bell. A waiter came in. 

“ Quick ! quick ! go and buy a paper for me ! ” 

The freshly printed sheet was soon in the 
old man’s hands; it read as follows: 

“ Last dispatch. Paris, 5 P. M. — To-day in the 
avenue of the Champs-Elysees, a man named 
Pianori fired three shots at the Emperor, but 
failed to wound him. The assassin was rescued 
by the police from the hands of the crowd, who 
was about tearing him to pieces, and had al- 
most succeeded in- doing so. No other details 
up to going to press.” 

Below the dispatch sent from France, were 
numerous telegrams from Italy. 

His Lordship read : 

“Naples, 10 A. M. — Last night at the Thea- 
ter San Carlo was given for the first time the 
new ballet, Women and Flowers . The hall was 


BELLA 17 

crowded ; the audience enthusiastic. The dan- 
cers were recalled seven times/’ 

The man dropped the paper, and the former 
member of the Roman Parliament fell heavily 
on a chair. He looked down as if he was deep- 
ly ashamed and in utter despair. His voice was 
low, and tears came to his eyes as he said, al- 
most stammering : 

“Another victim ! Is our blood always to 
flow ? And while we suffer, Italy is singing, 
dancing and making love. Oh ! how despica- 
ble ! Ah ! nation without a conscience, if such 
is thy destiny, let it be ! ” 

He struck the table with his fist : 

“As for me, I have enough of it. I am 
tired of my endless exile, of tramping all over 
the world, hunted like a wild beast by the po- 
lice. Ah ! gentlemen of the Young Italy, you 
have nothing but scorn for my white hair ! Be 
it so. Henceforth this white hair will no lon- 
ger bow before you ! Finita la Commedia! I 
regain my liberty ! ” 

“What liberty?” asked Marino, trying hard 
to smile. 

“ I will be my own self again, and have only 
one master — myself ! ” 

He had left his chair now, and kept walking 
to and fro, gesticulating angrily, his own words 
increasing his wrath. 

“ Yes, it is decided ! To-morrow I shall write 


1 8 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

to the Cardinal Secretary of State. I knew 

Signor Antonelli formerly, and ” 

“ What ! You, write to that man ! ” 

“Yes; to him. I shall ask for pardon, 
and I know I shall get it. I will be like those 
other men — O Romagnuoli tornati in bastardi ! ” 
He lighted a cigar, and again lay down on 
the divan ; then, closing his eyes as he puffed 
the smoke toward the ceiling, he added : 

“At last, I am going to see you again, my 
beloved Ravenna, my own dear city ; and you, 
too, my palace of La Porta Serrata, abandoned 
so long. Ah ! fortunate Italy thinks of nothing 
but pleasure. All right ! let us all be merry, 
then. No more politics, no more sentimental 
nonsense, no more suffering! No; let pleas- 
ure be boundless; let it be an endless mas- 
querade; a carnival without any Lent to mar 
its gayety ! Besides, I am tired of living alone ; 
I have a great mind to try marriage.” 

“ Marriage ! ” gently sighed Marino, who 
approached the divan, and sat down. “ Your 
Lordship forgets his sixty and odd years.” 

The old man raised his head a little : 

“ Sixty-three, Mr. Musician ; and I don’t 
forget the total ! So, I intend to make a match 
worthy of the morals of my country ! I will 
go behind the scenes at the Theater of San 
Carlo, or choose a star among the dancers of 
La Sc ala ! ” 


BELLA 


19 


“Your Lordship is joking !” 

“ I never joke.” 

“And what will the portraits of your ances- 
tors say? Those great Condottiere who have 
died for honor’s sake, and who, in your palace, 
will look down at your Lordship, day and 
night ? ” 

With one bound, the old man straightened 
himself up, and, turning pale, walked towards 
the window, and opened it roughly ; anger was 
choking him. Marino followed him, and leaned 
against the balcony. 

In the street in front of the restaurant a 
crowd was gathering. A band of those musi- 
cians, who are real vermin in London, were 
giving a sidewalk concert. Two violins 
squeaked, a harp, out of tune, accompanied 
them ; and above all those discords, a woman 
was singing the “ Brindisi ” of La Traviata, 
that tune so popular on account of its very 
vulgarity. 

“ Pretty voice,” said Marino, “ but no cul- 
ture. Ah ! if I had given her lessons ! ” 

“ Say ! pretty one. Say, little one,” cried his 
Lordship, “ here is a shilling for you. Take it. 
Now, come up here and sing for us.” 

The girl looked up, finished her song, and 
entered the house ; a few minutes later, she 
was ushered into the private dining room. 

She was, indeed, a superb creature — a tall, 


20 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


youthful, dark complexioned Italian woman, 
with large, soft eyes and luxuriant hair fastened 
with a gold pin. Her features reminded one of 
those beautiful maidens of the Transtevere, 
made almost divine by the brush of the Sanzio. 
She was strangely dressed in a red skirt, bought 
probably at a second-hand store, near the Cov- 
ent-Garden Theater. To her waist, she had 
pinned a bouquet of artificial wild roses. 

Standing smilingly in the' middle of the 
room, the street songstress looked boldly at the 
two men, displaying her pearl-white teeth. 
However, she did not hesitate very long, but 
turning her velvety eyes towards the man in 
the black suit, she said in French : 

“ Here I am, sir. What shall I sing for you ? 
The Santa Lucia ? But you have no piano to 
accompany me.” 

His Lordship had put on his eyeglasses, and 
scrutinizing her as a connoisseur, said : 

“ That’s a fact. What ! You speak French, 
my dear ? ” 

“ Certainly. My father was a teacher in Mar- 
seille.” 

“You were born in France, then?” 

“ No ; in Rome.” 

“Daughter of a teacher, eh? Indeed! A 
learned woman, then ?” 

“Yes; I know everything. I even know 
enough to ignore what one should not know.” 


BELLA 


21 


And laughing, she looked attentively at the 
two men, who were also laughing. 

His Lordship went on, pointing at the flow- 
ers pinned on her dress : 

“ You are not quite so wild as your flowers, 
then ? " 

“ And especially not so withered/' she added, 
mockingly. 

“ Give me the little bunch, my beauty." 

“ Never ! It is a charm." 

“ Against the evil eye?" 

“Yours is not such a very good one. No ; I 
like these wild roses; my father was fond of 
them." 

“A pretty phrase. I approve of the senti- 
ment. And what is your sweet name ? " 

“ Bella." 

“ That is the name you go by, I suppose ; 
but what is your real one — the one God gave 
you?" 

“ God ! " said the singer, shrugging her shoul- 
ders. 

“ What ! a free thinker ? A strange case, in- 
deed!" 

Bella seemed to hesitate ; but suddenly fall- 
ing into a serious mood, she said : 

“You are Italians; I see it. Well, my name 
is Rosina Savelli." 

She pronounced that name with the same 
pride as if she had said, “my name is Falcon, 


22 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


or Malibran.” She, no doubt, expected to pro- 
duce a sensation ; and she did. 

“ Savelli ! ” exclaimed his Lordship. “ I 
used to know, during the siege of Rome by the 
French, a certain Scipione Savelli ; he was 
fighting under my command, and was wounded 
on the ramparts. He was a brave fellow.” 

“ He was my father.” 

“ Your father! Oh ! pardon me, then, Signo- 
rina Savelli! You bring back to me sad 
remembrances. Yours is a name written in the 
martyrology for holy Liberty ! Savelli ! one 
of the victims, I think, of that man Bonaparte.” 

The woman turned deathly pale ; her eyes 
glared, while she answered in an altered voice : 

“They have shot him twice! He was my 
father.” 

“ Shot him twice ! The wretches ! But where 
and how was this abominable crime com- 
mitted?” 

“ In Provence, after the coup d' etat, dur- 
ing the great Insurrection in the South.” 

“ I see — I remember ; several leaders of 
‘Young Italy’ fought also in the ranks of the 
French Republicans, and fell like heroes. It 
was for the sake of our vain hopes — folly ! ” 

“Folly, perhaps, but sublime folly! My 
father had the command of a band of Repub- 
licans in the Var. O! yes, sir; my father was 
brave ! He was a devoted lover of liberty; his 


BELLA 


23 


heart was burning for his beloved Italy — this 
pitiful abode of grief ! How he hated this 
Bonaparte, the besieger of Rome, the supporter 
of the Pope and the priest! He had formerly # 
known that man, a ‘ Carbonaro,’ like himself, 
both conspiring for the same object. The vile 
renegade ! And so, Savelli was ready to fight. 
At the first call he gave up his pupils, his 
friends, left Marseille and hurried to join his 
companions in arms. He was captured on a 
barricade, and immediately shot. Those sol- 
diers were brutes ! But death refused to take 
him ; he was not killed. Perforated with bul- 
lets but still breathing, they threw him into an 
ambulance and tended his wounds. Out of 
pity, think you, perhaps ? No ; no such human 
sentiments existed in those ferocious beasts ! 
You’ll never imagine, though, what those peo- 
ple were capable of — those members of the Spe- 
cial Commission and their Public Prosecutor, 
the blood-thirsty Besnard, the ‘ White Butcher/ 
as he was called. By order of that Besnard, my 
dying father was taken before a courtmartial ; 
he could scarcely stand, for his wounds were 
still bleeding. Villains! Villains! They sen- 
tenced him again, and those brigands shot him 
a second time ! O ! Yes, villains ! ” 

She had told her story in a wild outburst of 
rage, passionately gesticulating, clenching her 
fists and grinding her teeth ; it came out, mixed 


24 the court OF NAPOLEON III 

all through with wild Italian exclamations, her 
eyes still dry, but burning with hatred. She 
stopped, gasping for breath. The other — the 
Italian nobleman — was looking at her silent and 
thoughtful. 

“ Infamous ! ” cried he, at last. “ But you, his 
daughter, what have you done to avenge him?” 

44 1 ? ” she retorted, in a rage. “ I was a teacher 
in Marseille. They turned me out as a diseased 
dog, and I submitted ! That’s all ! ” 

“ That’s all ? It is very little ! ” 

“Alas ! ” 

“And now, poor thing, you drag a miserable 
life in the streets of London ? ” 

“I have been so hungry!” was the sullen 
answer ; and shuddering, she now kept silent, 
while he surveyed her attentively for a while. 

“Unfortunate Savelli ! ” said he in alow 
tone ; and he rose. 

Suddenly Rosina stood up in front of the old 
man, and cried: 

“ Listen ! I am twenty-two years old, and I 
know that I am very handsome. Is it your 
wish to avenge the dead ? Will you do it ? 
Say yes, and I belong to you body and soul !” 

The old man shuddered. After a pause he 
said : 

“ Come to see me, Signorina Savelli.” 

“ What day?” 

" To-morrow.” 


BELLA 


25 


“ What street ? ” 

“ Piccadilly, No. 3.” 

“ For whom shall I ask ? ” 

“ For the Prince di Carpegna. M 



PART THE FIRST 


I 

JUSTICE 


H E who was then reigning over France was 
called Napoleon. 

This Emperor has been for the last eighteen 
years judged by History. And though His- 
tory ought to be equitable toward all, it has 
rendered in his case, nothing but the severest 
and most unjust verdicts. The man was cer- 
tainly inferior to his task, and crushed by the 
weight of his name ; but might in other times, 
have been worthy of an Empire. His enemies 
have relentlessly persecuted his memory ; 
almost as cruel after his downfall as they had 
been cowardly during his reign. They seem 
to have left no room for anything else but 
contumely ; but he, like the suffering ghosts 
of the popular legends, seems to rise from the 
very stones of this Paris he has made 
a marvel, as well as from the rest of beautified 
France, and ask for justice. 

In those days, though, he was reputed great. 
Hoisted on the throne by a public crime, but 
absolved from it by the consent of a whole 
nation, this nephew of “ The Man ” might 
have thought himself the equal of “ The Man.” 

(29) 


30 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

He had the luck of Napoleonic genius, and 
some thought, its boldness. And, in fact, 
many among the kings of Europe feared him. 
Napoleon ! How formidable this name sound- 
ed ! Were they going to see with this new 
Bonaparte, those wonderful times again — those 
gigantic wars, those defeats without honor, 
those treaties without mercy ? 

A Queen of England, knowing herself so 
near, came to pay him a visit, and a Czar of 
Russia, knowing himself so far, sent him an 
insult. Both were afraid, and showed it. 

But still more than old Monarchies, did 
young Revolution fear him ; he who from the 
start had tried to crush it out of existence. 
O ! how they did hate this “ Monsieur Bona- 
parte,” all those for whom February, 1848, had 
appeared as an aurora of liberty, and whom 
December, 1851, had plunged back into dark- 
ness. This motley crowd consisted of nations 
without a country, of people without a home 
— the Hungarians, the Poles, the Italians — 
especially the latter, who never could forget 
that Louis Napoleon had conspired with them ; 
with them had sworn, as a member of a secret 
order, to make “ Italy Italian,” and, as his first 
act of power, had besieged Rome — Rome who 
had rid herself of the Popes, and was again the 
proud Rome of old — the dream of the Brother- 
hood at last realized. And now, tfye ex Car - 


JUSTICE 31 

bonaro , oblivious of all his sacred vows, was 
helping the priesthood, and keeping a garrison 
in the irredenta cita! 

Besides, at that time, the Italians had a polit- 
ical dogma. A Republic was necessary in 
France, so as to become useful to Italy. Oh ! 
if he could only have disappeared — this tyrant, 
this Louis Napoleon — how the land of the Rien- 
zis would have shaken off its petty kings, and love 
would have united forever the sister nations ! 
Alas ! this Republic so ardently prayed for by 
you Italians, is again established in France, and 
you, “ The Sister Nation,” what do you think of 
it to-day? How much of your love remains? 

But France — the France at large — was fond 
of him then ; fond of her Caesar lost and found 
again — of her Napoleon. Already she had par- 
doned him everything: the crime of the 2d 
of December, the wholesale slaughtering on the 
Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, the special com- 
missions, the cruel transportation of thou- 
sands of innocents, even the exile of the most 
illustrious among her sons. She loved him. 
She had been so scared by the others — the 
Reds. As in the days of the year VIII. of the 
First Republic, a wave of religious fervor had 
taken possession of the heart of free-thinking 
France; the devout Catholics were numerous, 
and they believed in this strange Messiah. He 
was, according to them, the instrument of a 


32 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


revengeful Providence — the creature sent to per- 
form the work of wrath ; and he was to do away 
with all impious innovations — to be the avenger 
of the city of God. They believed it, and a 
Pope offered to become the spiritual father of 
the son and heir of this new Napoleon — this 
poor Prince Imperial, whose large blue eyes 
were so soon to become heavy with tears. So 
Te Demns were chanted triumphantly in cathe- 
drals and palaces : “ Long live the Emperor ! 

The heart of the mercantile class, ordinarily 
so skeptical, though less enthusiastic, was none 
the less unreservedly enlisted. Henceforth, 
they said, no more socialism to fear, public 
bankruptcy to prevent, riot to repress : the 
red specter has vanished in the imperial splen- 
dors. And in the mansions of the bankers, as 
well as in the humble dwellings back of the 
petty stores, they all cried, “ Long live the 
Emperor ! ” 

As to the working people, the still resound- 
ing echoes of past salvos and the triumphal 
firing of cannons awakened proud feelings in 
their bosoms, and the farmer, looking at his 
lithograph of the Petit Corporal, and the 
workman, looking at the Column Vendome, 
both cried with a will, “ Long live the Em- 
peror !” 

“ Long live the Emperor ! ” Yes, the gener- 
ation of that time uttered with enthusiasm this 


JUSTICE 33 

old cry of Austerlitz and Jena — the clamor of 
the “ Great Nation/' 

It considered itself happy ; and what enchant- 
ing dreams of happiness ! O ! those days yet so 
near and already so far — recent events that are 
nevertheless obscured by legends — when the 
cannons of the Invalides, Retreat were proclaim- 
ing to the world the names of Alma, of Malakoff, 
of Magenta, of Solferino ; when twice in a dec- 
ade, the French army traversed Paris carrying 
laurel twigs fastened to the bayonets of their 
guns, and all the sovereigns of the earth hur- 
ried to the Elysee, this kingly hostelry ; when, 
to the astonishment of all Europe, the Em- 
peror of the French proved himself to be, in 
truth, “ the Emperor ! ” — those beautiful days 
when glory took in our hearts the place of 
liberty, will they ever come back? No: ex- 
cessive hatred has driven away excessive love, 
and our pride has shed too many tears ! “ The 
Irreparable " seems forever accomplished ! But 
ought the grief caused by the final defeat oblit- 
erate all memories of the past ? and ought the 
abyss of Sedan swallow up even the remem- 
brance of our grandeur? O! France, France, 
daughter of ancient Gaul, nation of the Vce 
Victis , art thou, in truth, merciless for the 
vanquished ? 

And thou divine judge of men, whose con- 
science is sometimes led astray for a short 

3 


34 THE court OF NAPOLEON III 

time, but who often dost absolve kings be- 
cause thou knowest their peoples — Goddess of 
History, when wilt thou recall thy judgment ? 


II 

A WEDNESDAY AT COURT 

♦ 




























r 









\ 






' 









N that evening, November 24, 1856, the 


whole front of the Palace of the Tuil- 


eries was brilliantly lighted. On the Place 
du Carrousel stood several rows of carriages, 
which, entering through the iron gates, and 
driving under the dome, had landed women in 
ball attire and men in brilliant uniform. They 
were to dance at the Castle, for it was the first 
ball of the season. 

This Castle of the Tuileries exists no longer. 
From the first hour of its convulsive agony, the 
Commune of 1871 had it doomed to destruc- 
tion, and no bonfire gave those poor fools that 
took part in it more joy ! Because they de- 
stroyed those few stones that spoke of so much 
grandeur in the past, they thought they were 
annihilating the Grand Past itself! For a long 
time, pitiful crumbling walls and falling cupolas 
— the ruins of the destroyed palace — seemed 
to cry against civil war ; to-day, even those ruins 
are no more — etiam periere . 

Through the large opening of the “ Car- 
rousel ” those who have not forgotten can yet 
see, in their mental vision, the ghosts of so 


(37) 


38 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

many bygone things ; but each day makes this 
vision more and more dim. Now a new gener- 
ation is nigh indifferent to our regrets ; and 
already children look with astonishment at him 
who tells them, “ Here was a palace whose halls 
many a king has trodden/’ Oblivion, so 
soon ! 

The writer of this story has had, at one time, 
many an opportunity of going through this 
royal dwelling; he has known its last occu- 
pants ; allow him to recall the vision. 

Under the dome, to the right, stretched a 
broad stone stairway with two landings ; it was 
steep, and hard to climb — a gigantic ladder. 
On reception nights, torches lighted it, and, on 
each step, immovable in his cuirass of polished 
steel, stood one of the giants who formed the 
squadron of the “ Hundred Guards.” In a 
large vestibule at the top, a chamberlain, clad 
in a scarlet coat, received the guests, who were 
then introduced in the Fete Hall, a long apart- 
ment all white and gold, built by Louis Phi- 
lippe, in imitation of the gallery of the same 
name at Versailles. Here no picture on the 
walls, except an equestrian portrait of Napo- 
leon III, a rather curious picture by Horace 
Vernet, which occupied the whole of the cen- 
tral panel. 

Along the walls was a double row of seats 
where women and young girls spread out their 


A WEDNESDAY AT COURT 39 

silken skirts ; and, in one corner, a platform had 
been erected for the “ small orchestra/' The 
other orchestra, that of Strauss, was placed in 
the Marshals' Hall. 

The crystal chandeliers, the torches and the 
candelabras threw a flood of light on all this 
white and gold decoration. The gorgeous scene 
was reflected in the large mirrors ; and what 
with the show of the uniforms, the glitter of 
satin and precious stones, those imperial festi- 
vals offered a sight one has never seen since. 

At one end of this first hall, a large opening 
draped with crimson velvet led into the Mar- 
shals' Hall. This famous hall, which was for a 
long time considered a model of architecture, 
was square in shape, and as high as the Central 
Dome. Gigantic white marble cariatides sup- 
ported the ceiling, and full-length portraits of 
the marshals of the First Empire adorned the 
walls. The aspect was imposing and majestic 
in the extreme. 

It was there, close to a raised throne draped 
with purple and gold bees, that Napoleon III 
was to be found on state occasions. Usually 
he left his private apartments at 10 o’clock; 
then the ball was opened, and the presentations 
to the Empress began. Toward midnight, Na- 
poleon would wend his way through the dancing 
hall, and soon after seek the seclusion of his 
own apartments. 


40 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


On that particular evening — an official “ Wed- 
nesday evening/’ as it was called — there was 
dancing at the Tuileries. An ever-moving crowd 
filled the imperial drawing-rooms, and the ball 
had reached a high degree of animation, when 
M. le Vicomte Marcel Besnard, coming from 
his club, joined the distinguished guests of the 
night. 

He was a young man about twenty -eight 
years old, of fine appearance and proud bear- 
ing ; tall, dark, with piercing black eyes. He 
had the haughty mien and the disdainful man- 
ners of the fashionable men of the day ; his 
mustache was long and pointed ; he wore an im- 
perial, and his hair was parted in the middle 
and carefully brushed forward on the temples. 
In short, he was a typical swell, a gandin, as such 
as he were called then. His slender shape al- 
lowed him to wear with ease the tight-fitting 
uniform of assessor of the Council of State ; it 
consisted of a blue coat with collar and cuffs 
embroidered with silver, white knee-pants, a 
straight sword and a cocked hat ornamented 
with black feathers. This latter article of dress 
he carelessly carried crushed under his right arm. 

The Viscount sported a single eye-glass, and 
entered the room with a lofty air, slightly 
dragging, as a sign of peculiar elegance, his 
buckled shoes on the waxed floor. He glanced 
at the guests who were crowded in the first 


A WEDNESDAY AT COURT 41 

hall, and walked quickly towards the Marshals' 
Hall. But, on the threshold he had to stop — 
a treble row of men and women preventing him 
from going any farther. 

The Emperor was just then dancing a quad- 
rille, and from every side people had hurried 
to have a good look at his Majesty balancing 
back and forth. So Marcel Besnard had to 
retreat, and sat down impatient and annoyed. 
In front of him whirled numerous dancers, 
but they belonged to the class of petty govern- 
ment officials. It was customary at the court 
to reserve the Marshals' Hall for the high dig- 
nitaries, such as foreign ambassadors, ministers 
of state, renowned generals, senators, or sec- 
retaries of state. As to the lesser officials, 
with more modest embroidery on their uni- 
forms, they had to be satisfied with staying in 
the long dancing hall. 

There, could be seen elbowing each other 
prefects, sub-prefects, heads of the different 
departments of state, official engineers, colo- 
nels, a whole army of big and small epaulets ; 
there, too, were found magistrates looking very 
grand in their black velvet attire, and even 
some members of the French Academy, their 
coats covered with embroidered green palms. 
Marcel Besnard looked on as one surfeited 
with the splendors of the imperial Wednes- 
days, when suddenly he turned around. 


42 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


“ My respects to the most brilliant of vis- 
counts!” a young man had said, wearing the 
uniform of the foreign affairs. 

“ Is that you, Gravenoire,” replied Marcel. 
“ How do you do, my dear fellow? Oh, what 
a stifling crowd ! ” 

“ Over a thousand invitations, I understand ; 
the finest people in the empire ; what a gath- 
ering ! But, how is Count Besnard ? ” 

“ My father ? Much better, thank you. He 
is back to town again, and has already taken 
up his duties as councilor of state.” 

“ I am happy to hear such good news. What 
was his trouble ? ” 

“ Some sort of nervous disease. The doctors 
did not seem to understand his case ; but now, 
fortunately, he is quite well again.” 

“Are you alone to-night, Viscount ? ” 

“ Entirely alone with my ennui.” 

“ Did not Mademoiselle Marie-Anne accom- 
pany you ? ” 

Marcel Besnard shrugged his shoulders. 
“ No ; my sister stayed with my father ; besides, 
she never goes anywhere.” 

“And where did you spend the hunting 
season?” asked the budding diplomat. 

“ In Normandy, in my small castle of Sasse- 
ville.” 

“ Where is your castle of Sasseville ? ” 

“ In the department of the Seine Inferieure, 


A WEDNESDAY AT COURT 43 

near Fecamp, a piece of property my mother 
left me.” 

“ Is it a pretty place ? ” 

“ Wonderfully so; it belongs to me, you 
know,” and Marcel laughed good humoredly'; 
then he added : “Ah ! look, Gravenoire, what’s 
that ? ” 

And his glance called his friend’s attention to 
a young woman near by sitting on an armchair 
as on a throne, and surrounded by a noisy 
circle of admirers. 

She looked remarkably handsome, indeed ; a 
brunette of small stature, but with large blue 
eyes, superb shoulders and shapely form. Her 
black, wavy hair fell down in long braids, as 
was the fashion then, and gracefully curled 
around her oval face. On her head she wore a 
wreath of wild roses besprinkled with diamonds, 
and a bouquet of the same flowers fastened to 
her corsage. Carelessly lounging on an arm- 
chair the lady buried the lower limbs of her 
near neighbors under the fullness of a yellow 
satin skirt with three flounces of black lace. 
Her hand, rather large, was moving an ostrich 
feather fan, opening and closing it with a series 
of well studied coquettish motions. Beaux of 
every age surrounded her, flattering her and 
talking all sorts of nonsense, each one trying to 
make himself the most agreeable. This won- 
derful woman certainly enjoyed the sport, for 


44 THE court OF NAPOLEON III 

every time a word a little too free was uttered 
she would throw herself back in the chair hid- 
ing part of her face with her fan, but her eyes 
could yet be seen sparkling with delight. In 
this movement of abandon and studied timidity 
sometimes her dress would rise just a little 
and disclose a pretty foot, even a shapely 
ankle ; then there was sure to arise a murmur 
of admiration ; when she would modestly push 
her skirts down again. 

“ Well! who is this adventuress ? ” asked the 
auditor of his friend. 

Gravenoire looked at him astonished : “ You 
know her very well ! She is Rosina.” 

“ What Rosina ? ” 

“ I pity you, my dear fellow ! Have you 
become a hermit ? She is the reigning beauty, 
just now! Rosina, Princess di Carpegna.” 

Marcel Besnard began to laugh : 

“ I did not know it. What a peculiar name 
— an assumed title, no doubt ? ” 

“ Not at all! Areal princess! The Car- 
pegnas belong to an illustrious family of Ro- 
magna. Dante has written a whole verse about 
them in the Purgatory of his Divina Comme- 
dia. Even she, it seems, is a countess d’a- 
Prata, another old noble stock from Ravenna ; 
but about this, I will not be too positive. 
However, I was introduced to her, last year in 
Venice. She occupied a palace on the Grand 


H 







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- , V- 


m 






. 





































































































A WEDNESDAY AT COURT 45 

Canal ; received the best society and lived in 
superb style.” 

From afar Marcel was scrutinizing the young 
woman. “Very pretty, that is a fact! But 
what a strange attire ? A yellow satin dress, 
trimmed with wild roses and black lace ! A 
foreigner’s taste, of course. ” 

“ She has the Parisian style, though, this 
amiable Rosina. She seems somewhat inclined 
to flirt.” 

“ Pshaw ! What an affectation that of wear- 
ing the Austrian colors ! ” 

“ It is, perhaps, in honor of her noble hus- 
band, who was an old conspirator, but repented 
and now courts favor of the tyrants. ” 
i “ There is a live husband, then ? ” 
f “ Oh ! not much of a one. He never shows 
himself, and people say that they cannot endure 
each other ; they live entirely apart.” 

“ In that case, introduce me, my dear chap. ” 

“ You, Lovelace ! ” 

And they went toward Princess di Carpegna. 

“ Monsieur de Gravenoire ! ” exclaimed Prin- 
cess di Carpegna, as soon as she saw the young 
diplomat. “ What a stranger you have been 
lately ! ” 

He excused himself in a few words. 

“ I am settled in Passy,” continued the Prin- 
cess, in my little chartreuse on the Des Jardins 
street, and ” 


46 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

“ Can one become a superior in your con- 
vent, Princess ?" 

“ Not even a beadle, you conceited man ! 
But I receive with pleasure those of my friends 
who are willing to undertake this afar-off pil- 
grimage/' 

“ Madame," said Gravenoire, “ allow me to 
introduce one of my best friends, Viscount 
Marcel Besnard." 

A sudden tremor shook the hand toying with 
the fan, and a slight blush covered the pale face 
of the Italian woman. 

“ Viscount Marcel Besnard?" she said, in a 
very serious tone, “ belongs, doubtless, to the 
family of Count Brutus Besnard ? " 

“ He is my father, madam." 

“ The former General Prosecutor?" 

“ Himself." 

“ He is your father, Sir?" 

Her large blue eyes rested for a few moments 
upon the young man, then, still looking at him, 
she held out her hand, saying: 

“A friend of one of my friends, you are 
from this moment, one of mine also. Pray, sit 
down, Viscount." 

She spoke a perfectly correct French, har- 
monious, and resounding with a slight foreign 
accent ; her voice was low and caressing ; her 
mouth was smiling and showed her superb 
teeth. The conversation which had been in- 


A WEDNESDAY AT COURT 


47 


terrupted, began anew. It resumed its sway 
as a perfect shower of compliments and rather 
equivocal jokes. 

The old Baron La Chesnaye, a Deputy 
Chamberlain, an effeminate sexagenarian, with 
a waxed mustache and a bald head, ala Morny, 
was making merry, louder than the rest, in his 
cynical, stupid way. The young woman 
listened and answered, evidently amused and 
amusing. 

The orchestra soon began the prelude of a 
Strauss waltz, “ Die Morgenblatter.” 

“ Will the Princess grant me the favor of a 
waltz? ” -asked the young assessor. 

She rose at once, remarking, with a smile : 
“ Generally, I do not care for dancing ; but I 
will refuse nothing to the son of Count Bes- 
nard.” 

“ Take care,” cried the old La Chesnaye, 
“ you don’t know what he is going to ask of 
you ! ” 

“ Is he not of an age to dare much ?” she re- 
plied, gaily. 

A joyous outburst followed her answer. 

She, languidly taking the arm of the young 
man, leaned on it and gently pressed it ; he, 
in blissful ecstasy, hurried through the crowd 
without speaking, fearing lest he might break 
the charm that already bound them to- 
gether. 


48 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


“ So, sir,” she asked for the second time, 
“ you are the son of Count Brutus Besnard, 
the former Prosecutor General?” 

“Yes, to-day, a State Councilor; you know 
my father, Princess ? ” 

“ Oh ! no, not personally ; but I know his 
name ; ” and in a caressing tone she added : 

“ It is a name heavy to bear ! ” 

Marcel bowed ; then, finally took the young 
woman in his arms and followed the waltzers. 
She, with her eyes closed and her cheek almost 
touching his, lay entirely helpless in his em- 
brace. Suddenly, they had to stop ; the music 
had ceased. The leader of the orchestra struck 
three times on his desk and, right away, violins 
and wind instruments struck up the official 
hymn of the Queen Hortense. The tall figure 
of the High Chamberlain, the Due of Bassano, 
had just appeared on the threshold of the 
dancing hall, and pronounced the customary, 
formal words : 

“ The Emperor ! ” 

“ What is it ? ” asked the astonished Madame 
di Carpegna. 

“ It is the Emperor ! ” said Marcel. “ He 
is going the round of the ball before retiring to 
his apartments.” 

With a sudden movement, the young woman 
freed herself from his hold. A strange trans- 
formation took place : no more languor, no 


A WEDNESDAY AT COURT 49 

more abandon ; but her eyes brightened, and a 
slight quiver passed over her face. 

“ The Emperor ! ” She cried ; “ Quick, O 
come quick ! I must have a good look at 
him ” 

In the hall the dancers had already formed 
a double line ; they pushed and crowded each 
other in their anxiety to see their lord and 
master. 

Protected by her escort, the Princess di Car- 
pegna was able to Teach the front row. The 
orchestra was silent then, and a low murmur 
was passing from one group to another ; the 
imperial cortege was advancing. 

First, came the officers of the Hundred 
Guards with their carved breastplates and 
their steel, white - maned helmets. Behind 
them came the Emperor’s staff in blue coats 
with silver trimmings ; then the Master of 
Ceremonies in purple, the equerries in the 
colors of the Bonapartes, gold and green ; then 
the High Chamberlain in his scarlet coat ; and 
finally, 

The Emperor ! 

Napoleon III wore that night the uniform 
of general-in-chief and the great cordon of the 
Legion of Honor. He was walking along, 
dragging his feet, his whole body seeming half 
disjointed, and his look, while gazing upon the 
undulating crowd, came from lusterless eyes, 
4 / 


50 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

visibly listless and weary. As he advanced, he 
kept twisting his mustache mechanically. At 
times, in this brilliant assemblage, he would 
recognize some functionary ; then his face 
would brighten up and he would stop and ad- 
dress a few words of welcome, in an amiable 
and fascinating manner. 

He was going to pass on. Suddenly the 
Princess di Carpegna stretched out her head 
as if to see better, and in doing so dropped her 
fan, uttering a little cry as of embarrassment. 

Napoleon stopped short, stooped and picked 
up the fan. Then with strange self-assurance, 
the young woman took one step towards him 
holding out her hand. For a few seconds they 
looked at each other. She stared at him both 
confused and bold, blushing and silent. 

The Emperor bowed and went on. 

Now he was smiling and swaggering all the 
more, and his nervous fingers kept twisting his 
mustache. A few steps farther, recognizing 
the Chamberlain La Chesnaye, he signed to 
him ; the other bowed deep as the Master 
whispered something in his ear. 

Half an hour later, Napoleon III had re-en- 
tered his own apartments. 


> 


\ 


III 

Simple Effect of a Couplet 


# 




































t 












* 















“\/OUR Emperor is a charming man ! ” de- 
I dared the princess, who had become 
herself again, “ both gallant and graceful ! 
Louis XIV. has found a peer. He is simply 
delightful.” She had again taken hold of the 
arm of her escort, and was walking about the 
hall talkative and coquettish. 

“What a magnificent entertainment, Vis- 
count ! I have been to a great many official 
receptions in Italy ; but, alas ! our miserable 
festiccinole cannot compare with the splendors 
of your court ! Our princes are so insignificant, 
so poor, almost beggars, real lazzaroni! Oh! 
but what a splendid reception this is ! ” 

“Are you in Paris to stay? ” asked Marcel. 

“ I am, at least for a while. I love Paris.” 
“And the Parisians, Princess ? ” 

“Your Parisians? O, they are rather dan- 
gerous for a poor thing like me, alone and 
without any protector.” 

She spoke with a very sweet and gentle voice ; 
at the same time leaning caressingly on Marcel's 
arm, and again pressing it almost impercep- 
tibly. 


54 THE court OF NAPOLEON III 

In this way, they arrived in the hall where 
the standing supper had been prepared. 

A confused mass of people, elbowing each 
other, officers and functionaries, took the buf- 
fet by storm, each one trying to obtain a glass 
of champagne or of a slice of “ Pate'-de-fois- 
gras;” a most shameful spectacle of voracity, 
and in every clime to be found the same ; the 
old human monkey will show himself at times. 

“ When is your reception day, Princess ?” 
asked Marcel, who had been made thoughtful by 
the last words of the “ poor thing, alone and 
without a protector.” 

“ Saturday, my dear Viscount ; however, you 

will be welcome any day. Oh ! if I could ” 

She stopped short, and with a nervous move- 
ment drew herself back. “Ah ! mon Dieu!” 
she stammered, “ let us not go that way ! Let 
us avoid that man— that one there — he is such 
a bad man ! ” 

And with a gesture full of fear, she pointed 
at one of the guests, seated on a sofa near by, 
and conversing with animation. He was 
dressed in an elegant court suit ; swallow tail 
coat, lace frill, and sword by his side. 

“ Who is such a bad man ? ” asked Marcel 
jokingly — “ the man over there, that good, old, 
fatherly looking gentleman, smooth faced and 
remarkably bald? What a splendid skull he 
has ! At a show of baldheads, our friend La 


SIMPLE EFFECT OF A COUPLET 55 

Chesnaye himself would have to acknowledge 
himself beaten.” 

He fixed his eyeglass, and looked in that 
direction in his usual impertinent way ; then he 
added : 

“ But, your bugbear is nothing but some old 
vestryman ! a second-class deacon, or rather a 
monsignore without his purple stockings ! That 
he should scare you ! What folly ! ” 

“ He is a very bad man ! ” she stammered 
again, in the tone of a scared child ; she seemed 
really frightened. 

Marcel turned round to avoid the man ; but 
the latter had already risen from his seat, and 
still conversing was unostentatiously following 
the assessor and his companion. 

Both had to stop in the crowd. 

“ I am very hungry,” said Princess di Car- 
pegna, suddenly quieting down; “let us try 
and get to the buffet.” 

With a good deal of trouble, Marcel made 
a way for his companion, and having seated 
her before a table, took his station behind, to 
serve and protect her. A voice, which was 
heard above the hubbub of the crowd, made 
him raise his head : 

“ Who is this evening the cavaliere servante 
of the beautiful Rosina?” 

“ I have just heard his name — a certain Bes- 
nard, they say.” 


56 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

“ Any relation to the Councilor of State ?” 

“ I think so.” 

There was a short silence, then the voice 
went on, scornful and haughty : 

“ To the man whom the Poet has so cruelly 
branded when he wrote : 

Prosecutor Besnard, Brutus only by chance — 
Executioner’s son, one by inheritance ! ” 

Marcel turned round quickly and found him- 
self face to face with the Monsignore-looking 
man who was impudently inspecting him from 
head to foot. 

“ These are very detestable verses, sir,” said 
the young man, “ and you seem to be in need 
of a lesson in poetry ! I am the son of Count 
Brutus Besnard. Please wait for me — I must 
speak to you ! ” 

“ I am at your service, sir. You will find me, 
presently ; but not here, I suppose. Let it be 
in the Hall of Apollo.” 

During this colloquy, the Princess had not 
stirred ; she seemed entirely taken up with the 
refreshments. Did she hear? 

Soon she requested the arm of her escort, 
and Marcel took her somewhat hurriedly back 
to her seat. 

The return of Madame di Carpegna was the 
signal for joyous exclamations. La Chesnaye, 
Gravenoire, and the others had been waiting 
for her. The circle again closed around her, and 


SIMPLE EFFECT OF A COUPLET $7 

the nonsense began worse than ever, gallant 
and fearless. Chamberlain La Chesnaye, with 
a triumphant gesture, flattened down the hair 
on his temples, and leaning over Madame di 
Carpegna’s shoulder : 

“Ah ! bewitching one,” whispered he, “ who 
knows so well how to handle a fan and break 
hearts. What an impression you have made ! 
If you only wished it ?” 

“ I wished what ? ” she asked, looking at him 
with both an impudent and naive look. 

He came nearer still and whispered very low 
a few words in her ear. 

The young woman threw herself back, uttered 
a sonorous laugh and said : 

“ Oh ! fie ! you naughty joker ! Such a lowly 
one as I am ! Nonsense ! M 

“ What is that suborner of innocence whis- 
pering to you ? ” asked Gravenoire. 

“ Nothing ! ” she answered, quickly ; “ nothing 
but amiable gossip ! ” and, pointing at the gold 
key strung on a ribbon hanging upon the red 
coat of the Chamberlain, she added : “ He 

wishes to open for me all the chambers of this 
palace — Che pazzo ! ! ” 

Marcel, during this time, had hurried to his 
appointment. 

Apollo Hall, being some distance from the 
dancing hall, had scarcely anybody in it. The 
stranger, now alone, was carelessly stretched 


58 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


in an armchair. The assessor pushed a chair 
close to him, seated himself, and leaning to- 
wards the man who had uttered the insulting 
words : “ I am the son of Count Brutus Bes- 
nard,” he whispered, “and you have just now 
insulted my father! ” The other smoothed the 
lace of his frill ; then, calm and smiling, he said, 
in a gentle and placid tone : 

“Insulted your father, my poor sir? I am 
sorry to say he is not one of those that can be 
insulted ” 

Marcel pulled off the glove from his left hand. 
“What does this mean?” 

“ It means that Prosecutor-General Besnard, 
an old provider of victims for the hated Com- 
mission of 1852, has been atrociously cruel/' 

The young man rose threateningly. “You 
lie ! My father has always done his duty, 
nothing more ! ” 

“ Even,” retorted the other, slowly, “ even 
when he shot twice the unfortunate Savelli. 
Your father, sir, is an infamous man ” 

The glove came down upon his face, lashing 
it. He rose, straightened himself up with per- 
fect calm, and said : “ To-morrow I shall kill 

you, sir ! ” 

The son of the ex-Prosecutor-General shrug- 
ged his shoulders. “You, twin brother to 
Pulcinello, what's your name?” 

“ Here is my card ! ” 


SIMPLE EFFECT OF A COUPLET 59 

Marcel Besnard grabbed it, looked at it, and, 
struck with amazement, read : 

Prince di Carpegna. 

In the dancing hall, around the charming 
Rosina, the circle of her admirers were having 
a noisy good time, and among the entertain- 
ers of the artless creature, La Chesnaye and 
Gravenoire were the leaders. 

Without a minute’s hesitation, Marcel hurried 
to join them. 


4 

IV 

COUNT BRUTUS 











* 




• -• 












✓ 


% 











OUNT BRUTUS BESNARD bore one 



of the most illustrious names of t'he 


great imperial period. He was the son of that 
Joseph Besnard, who was the friend of Sieyes, 
and an intimate at the Malmaison, one of the 
legislators who had taken such an active part 
in bringing about the eighteenth of “ Bru- 
maire.” Every one in France is familiar with 
the public life of this eminent lawyer. He was 
one of the law-makers who framed the code 
Cambaceres of 1793, a member of the Constitut- 
ing Assembly, of the Convention, of the Council 
of Five Hundred, of the Tribunat, of the 
Conservative Senate, and had been made a 
Count of the Empire. In short, he was a true 
child of the Revolution; but what many do not 
know are the curious details of his private life, 
especially the strange mystery relating to his 
death. 

One might read, either in the Gazette Na- 
tional or in the Moniteur Universel , dated 
June 16, 1810, the following paragraph signed 
S. — that is to say, Sauve himself, one of the 
bright lights of those days : 


(63) 


64 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


We have just received the announcement of the death 
of Monsieur le comte Besnard, member of the Conserva- 
tive Senate and of the Imperial High Court of Justice, 
one of the Commanders in the Legion of Honor, and 
chancellor of the sixth cohort. The Count died sud- 
denly in Paris yesterday. Neither in the age nor in the 
robust constitution of this indefatigable worker was there 
anything to prognosticate his untimely death. 

The Count died from the rupture of a blood vessel. 
All those who have been able to appreciate the charac- 
ter of this great and good man will certainly join their 
regrets with those which His Imperial Majesty, the 
Emperor and King, has deigned to address to his widow. 

Count Besnard leaves a son who will be his worthy 
heir and perpetuate his virtues. 

But one might also have read, a few months 
later, in The Indiscret , a Royalist pamphlet 
edited by Fauch6 - Borel, that scamp whom 
Louis XVIII called his “ Little Fauche” (sec- 
ond edition, London, 1 8 1 1 , without any print- 
er's name), the following strange notice : 

Besnard (Louis Joseph), alias Count Besnard , alias 
Citizen La Vertu , born in the district of Amont (Franche- 
Comte) about 1750, died in Paris in 1810. The biography 
of this man would require a whole volume; the name 
he deserves, but one word: Scoundrel ! 

Louis Joseph Besnard was a priest of the diocese of 
Besan£on when the hateful Revolution began. Sent by 
the clergy of his province to the “ Etats Generaux ” of 
1789, from the start he shows himself to be among the 
most zealous and ardent supporters of the “Constitu- 
tional church” schism: Gregoire himself was less vio- 
lent. Later, as a member of the Convention, in those 
bloody days of folly, he sits with the red republicans, 
votes the death of his king, worships the goddess 


COUNT BRUTUS 


65 


Reason, t and votes a decree for a permanent guillotine. 
They surname him “ Virtue ! ” It is about this time that he 
completes his infamous political career by a solemn apos- 
tasy of his sacerdotal character. This apostate falls in 
love with a dancer from the Theatre Favart, the too fa- 
mous Florine, and publicly marries her. Gobel, Si^yes, 
and Chabot, priests and renegades like himself, applaud. 
Oh ! what an epoch ! What morals ! 

On the “ 18th of Brumaire,” “ Virtue ” offers his serv- 
ices to Bonaparte, and the Corsican eagerly accepts 
this fresh accomplice. Besnard becomes a member of the 
Tribunat, and soon has a Senatorship tendered him as a 
reward for his complaisance. The former “ Sans-cu- 
lotte ” puts on the silk breeches. Virtue becomes Mon- 
sieur le Comte , and the ex-nymph, Florine, has a stool at 
Court! But God was watching. 

Suddenly, on the 15th of June, 1810, they hear that the 
Imperial Senator is dead. Big scandal ! the unfortunate 
man, driven to desperation by his wife’s shameful con- 
duct, has shot himself. One more of our Jacobins has 
appeared before his Maker. They rest from their work, 
but the fruits follow them. 

Joseph Besnard leaves a son ; poor child ! 

Well, this son, who was called by the impe- 
rialist newspaper, “ the worthy heir of the pa- 
ternal virtues,” and by the corrupt royalist 
libeler “ Poor child,” was, in 1856, Monsieur le 
Comte Besnard, Councilor of State in ordinary, 
and commander in the imperial order of the 
Legion of Honor. 

His name was Brutus; he was born on the 
5th “ Frimaire” of the year in, and had for 
godfather Lakanal, this other “ Citizen la 
Vertu .” He had been a hard-working young 


5 


66 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


man, and had bravely fought the battle of life. 
His mother, a woman of no moral character, 
had died shortly after the restoration of the 
Bourbon kings, leaving him without any means. 

• In those days of fierce reaction, in that pe- 
riod called the “ White Terror,” the son of the 
regicide felt his father’s name keeping him 
down as a heavy burden, but being very proud 
he accepted the burden. 

In the presence of the old nobility, those 
dukes and marquises who had just reentered 
France, after having emigrated from it, he 
proudly preserved his imperial title, “ Count 
Brutus Besnard.” They had laughed at him, 
and his disposition had become more and more 
embittered. And yet this enthusiastic Bona- 
partist compared favorably with any of them. 
Never had he joined any of those who cried, 
“Down with the Jesuits!” For his taste in- 
clined towards the “ black men.” His mind 
was full of a strange mysticism ; he believed, ar- 
dently believed. The priest, Joseph Besnard, he 
who abjured Christ, had brought into the world 
a Christian. 

As a member of the Paris bar, the young 
lawyer had early acquired a brilliant reputation. 
At thirty-two years of age he was pronounced 
to be the rival of Dupin, Odilon-Barrot and 
Chaix d’Est Ange ; but he had not grown so 
rich as those protectors of the poor. Even in 


COUNT BRUTUS 


67 


those days, this republican by origin had ceased 
to defend the republicans, and the martyr- 
dom of a Paul-Louis or of a B£ranger left him 
indifferent or scornful. The disorder in the 
French Parliament, the agitation on the Paris 
streets, the approaching storm of popular riot 
displeased him. Of the whole great revolu- 
tion, he never reverenced anything but its de- 
structor, Napoleon. 

When Charles X. was driven into exile, Louis 
Philippe made Brutus Besnard an assistant dis- 
trict attorney at the Paris court. 

From that time his promotions followed each 
other rapidly. Within a few years, he exchanged 
the black gown for the scarlet robe and the er- 
mine cloak. Never tired and always ready, his 
thorough knowledge of law, his eloquence, his 
integrity, his austerity, and his independence 
caused him to be feared by those evil-doers his 
office made his enemies. 

This son of a renegade priest and a regicide 
was now somewhat of a terrorist and an inquisi- 
tor. Being a devout Catholic, he considered 
God’s enemies as his own. The son wished, 
perhaps, to atone for his father’s atheism; 
perhaps he hoped that all his good deeds 
would relieve the suffering soul in Purgatory. 
He was bitter on others’ weaknesses because 
he had none himself ; his implacable heart was 
seemingly as hard as the guillotine knife, which 


68 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


he declared in open court, one day, to be “ the 
last moralizing agent of France! ” 

“A culprit acquitted,” he used to say, “ is 
the condemnation of the judge ! ” 

The government of 1 848 found him a member 
of the Court of Appeals at Aix, and, notwith- 
standing his defiantly reactionary attitude, did 
not dare remove him; and in December, 1851, 
he still occupied a seat on the same bench. 

With what joy this mystic had welcomed 
the news of the “ Coup d’etat ! ” How he 
applauded the strangling of the Republic, “ the 
killing,” he said, “ of the ‘ beast full of blas- 
phemy ! ’ ” All through the South there 
reigned a great agitation. In the departments 
of the Var and of the Bouches-du-Rhone, a 
jacquerie, a peasant’s revolt, was in progress ; 
Italian refugees fought among the rioters ; it 
threatened to grow into a cosmopolitan revolu- 
tion. These unfortunates were severely dealt 
with; Brutus Besnard sent them all before the 
Special Commissions, and led the prosecution 
with vehement eloquence. Thanks to him, 
Lambessa and French Guiana were filled with 
exiles, and, according to a saying of that time, 
he “ colonized cemeteries.” As for those caught 
in arms, they went before the Court Martial, 
and that was as good as sending them to death. 
Several were sentenced to be shot; they even 
dared to shoot a second time an unfortunate 


COUNT BRUTUS 69 

Italian who had only been wounded in the 
first execution. 

And in this very case, the Prosecutor-General 
had himself furnished all the evidence and 
demanded emphatically this second execution : 
the blood of the miserable Savelli rested thus 
truthfully on the head of Brutus Besnard. 

As a natural consequence, the vanquished of 
1851 nursed a horrified hatred against this piti- 
less provider of the guillotine. “ Here goes the 
white butcher,” whispered the people when, on 
the days of official Te Deums , they saw the 
pale old man coming down the cathedral nave, 
clad in his long red garments. 

So much zeal deserved a reward. On the 
1st of January, 1854, Count Brutus Besnard 
was made a State Councilor. The ministers 
of the new Empire hoped, no dotibt, that they 
had gained in him a devoted tool ; they were 
mistaken, and soon found out what sort of a 
man they had to deal with. 

Shortly after this appointment, the State 
Council was examining the by-laws of a finan- 
cial corporation who wanted to establish some 
sort of industrial monopoly. A very influen- 
tial personage, well received at the Tuileries, 
but a corrupt and corrupting man, was in favor 
of this establishment. It was evident to all 
that he had been bought over. 

The governmental pressure soon became so 


7 o 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


strong that the Council, though unwillingly, 
was going to vote in favor of the company, 
when Count Besnard rose in his seat : 

“ I have had twenty-four years’ experience 
in the practice of law,” cried he, “ but, until 
to-day, I was ignorant of what a public swindle 
really can be ! ” 

“ Sir,” interrupted Baroche, the president of 
the Council, “ this body has never before heard 
such language.” 

“ It will hear it in the future,” retorted the 
Count, and he went on with his speech. 

The desired authorization was refused to the 
corporation. Exasperafed by this exposure, 
the favorite at the Tuileries complained to the 
Emperor, who summoned to his presence the 
too outspoken Councilor. 

The defense of Count Besnard was short and 
abrupt : 

“ Your Majesty has been pleased to call me 
to your Council to advise, I suppose, and not 
to applaud only.” 

The conversation having run on more general 
topics, he added : 

“ Sire, God absolves a political crime when it 
is necessary to the furtherance of His supreme 
law ; whenever this law is violated, the crime 
becomes doubly criminal.” 

Whether the Count was alluding to the coup 
d'etat of the second of December or to his 


COUNT BRUTUS 7 1 

own doing, the execution of Savelli, no one 
could say. 

Napoleon smiled his peculiar smile, twisted 
his mustache, and nodded assent without utter- 
ing a word. 

From that day, Count Brutus Besnard was a 
favorite with his suspicious Sovereign ; but also 
from that day he was hated by the ministry. 

At the time our story begins, he was a tall, 
old man, already white and bent, with a superb 
head, long hair thrown back, and black eyes 
full of fire. He had been a widower for some 
time and lived with his son Marcel, and his 
daughter Marie-Anne, in a private mansion, 
the dowry of his wife. It was situated on the 
Avenue Breteuil, and there he hoped to rest 
and end his days, for he had grown more and 
more tired of so much conflict. Each year he 
divided his salary in three parts : one was 
offered to the Society of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul 
of which he was a member ; the second was 
mysteriously sent to the needy families of 
criminals, whom he had himself sentenced ; the 
third part — scarcely eight thousand francs — 
was to be sufficient for all his needs. 

After dividing between Jiis children the 
increased fortune of their mother, he chose the 
upper story of the mansion for his habitation, 
leaving the rest to them. There, he occupied 
two rooms with Mansard roofs ; one, his bed- 


72 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

room, had no other furniture than an iron 
bedstead, a few straw chairs, an old tapestry 
armchair and a praying stool with a crucifix in 
front ; the other was his sitting room and library. 
There again might be seen a crucifix, many 
books, and a piano on which his daughter 
would play for him on long winter evenings. 
Whether it was to mortify the flesh or to 
accomplish a vow, this strange man lived this 
life of self-immolation. But he had the osten- 
tation of his humility. And while his son “ the 
Viscount/’ a worldly young man, lived fast, 
kept a carriage and a valet, he, the father of 
the family, had only a good old woman, Philo- 
mene, to serve him. 

The days of the State Councilor were spent 
in continuous, hard work. He rose every morn- 
ing, even in winter, at five o’clock, and, bending 
over his bundles of legal papers, began his work 
for the public good. At seven, he went to a 
low mass, which was said for him “ fora certain 
purpose,” and where he would often linger as 
in an ecstasy. On coming home he again set- 
tled down to his task until the first meal, which 
he took with his children. He then kissed his 
daughter, conversed a few moments with his 
son and went to his labors, at the Council 
Chamber. 

He always accomplished his duty with an in- 
flexible conscience, which seemed bent on 


COUNT BRUTUS 


73 


satisfying itself only. His colleagues loved 
him little, but esteemed him much. In the 
legislative section, where he sat, they respect- 
fully listened to his advice ; in the Grand Council 
they admired his eloquence. As to the society 
people, they were at first scared by this monas- 
tical misanthrope ; but soon left him alone with 
his strange ways — he who was trying to shun 
them. All invitations to balls or concerts were 
left unnoticed, with the exception of a few of- 
ficial and obligatory receptions or banquets; 
he never went anywhere. All his evenings 
were spent in the company of his daughter, a 
sickly and deformed creature. “ Come, darling, 
you are my opera ; I listen ! ” Then he would 
sit down in his armchair, and, until late in the 
night, he would demand, from the soothing 
talent of his child, rest and quiet. 

As a natural consequence of all this, imperial 
Paris ridiculed the bizarre character of this un- 
sociable man — of this Monsieur Brutus, as they 
would familiarly call him. At the Council, this 
dreadful name was a subject for endless jokes, 
and one of the young assessors, who could 
write Latin poetry, tried his hand at it : 

“The ancient Brutus, once upon a time, sen- 
tenced his son to death for being too fond of 
Etruscan ladies, and you, modern Brutus, what 
will you do with yours ?” 

The joke was rather insipid ; however, the 


74 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


Secretary of State, having had it translated, de- 
clared it was charming and to the point. 

And thus was the old, broken-down lawyer, 
spending the rest of the monotonous days 
which were bringing him close to his death. 


V 


WORDS AND CONSCIENCE 




































































s 


•rl 




N INE o’clock was just striking, and a 
November morning lighted up with its 
snowy glare the dwelling rooms of Count Bes- 
nard. In his study, near a small wood fire, sat 
the Count listening to his daughter. 

On that day he had risen in a still more 
sullen mood than usual ; for that day, the 
twenty-fifth of November — Fifth Frimaire of 
the republican calendar — was his birthday, and 
it was to be celebrated among themselves. At 
dawn, Marie-Anne had entered her father’s 
apartments, bringing him a basket of autumn 
flowers ; then, both had waited for Marcel, but 
in vain. After a few moments of conversation, 
the young girl becoming uneasy, had gone 
down to her brother’s room in search of him, 
but had returned hurriedly, pale and anxious: 

“ Oh ! some misfortune must have happened ! ” 
cried the bewildered girl. “ The room is empty, 
the bed has not been touched ! ” 

But the old man had shrugged his shoulders 
and, unable to contain himself any longer, for 
Marcel’s conduct had grieved him much of 
late, he said : 


( 77 ) 


78 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

“ This is the way with the sons of the mid- 
dle class — they grow more and more useless 
and dissipated ! More guilty a hundred times 
than the fast men of the ancient nobility, for 
those at least had some honor left ! And this 
is the kind of men that are to succeed us ! 
Oh ! rotten and condemned society ! My 
child, let us go and pray to God.” 

At Saint Valiere, that day, this devout old 
man remained longer than usual on his knees, 
apparently lost in meditation ; and towards ten 
o’clock, after his return, father and daughter 
sat alone in the library. Neither news nor 
message from Marcel had yet arrived. 

“ My heart aches this morning,” said the 
Count. “ Come, my darling, a little music to 
soothe my pain.” 

She also, poor Marie-Anne, had her eyes full 
of tears ; but, always docile, she obeyed, and 
soon her voice came out vibrating and full of 
feeling; a superb mezzo-soprano voice. At 
first she sang some light arie from the old 
French masters, Dalayrac and Mehul; but soon 
an impatient gesture from her father inter- 
rupted her ; it was evident that the old repertoire 
of the Favart Theater — that of the Diva 
Florine — was distasteful to him. 

“ No, none of those insignificant tunes! 
Sing for me the spinning song.” 

“ The song which we heard one day at 


WORDS AND CONSCIENCE 


79 


Audierne?” she asked, getting strangely pale. 
“ I really don’t think I remember it, and I am 
afraid ” 

“No matter! Try, little one. I listen.” 

This song was a sort of popular ballad, in 
the dialect of Cornouailles, which Marie-Anne 
had heard at Audierne, in one of her journeys 
to Britany, between a blue gulf and a pine 
wood not far from the bay des Trepasses. Her 
brother had tried to translate it into French 
poetry, amateur poetry, poor, uncouth, scarcely 
rhymed; but he had succeeded in preserving 
the gentle and simple sentiment. 

“ So you do not remember it ? ” asked Count 
Besnard, noticing his daughter’s prolonged 
hesitation. 

“ Oh ! yes, I do,” she replied in a low tone. 

“ I remember it now. I remember it ” And 

she began : 

I 

My spinning wheel, sing, sing, 

Make the thread laugh and talk. 

What does it say that delights thee? 

It wants to spin a fine veil, 

The beautiful veil of the bride. 

To-day I am affianced 

To my love, my love, my love ! 

He who will always cherish me. 

The white veil of the bride, 

A fine veil to adorn me ; 

Oh ! my dear, gallant lover, 

I shall be thy bride to-morrow 


8o 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


II 

My spinning wheel weeps, weeps, 
Making the thread groan and cry. 
What does it say at this hour? 

It wants to spin a fine veil 

The sweet veil which wraps us all, 

And clothes us in the earth ; 

Since he has scorned my love, 

He, whom I shall always adore — 

The white veil which wraps us all 
Where we lay our heavy hearts 
Will soon clothe me under the earth, 
For I shall be dead to-morrow.” 


Sitting in his armchair, with his eyes closed, 
Count Besnard listened in silence. At times, 
when a note came out, more passionate and 
sonorous, he would lift his eyelids and gaze 
steadily at his daughter. 

“ Exactly my mother’s voice!” he would 
say, in a low voice. “ Oh ! my poor, unfor- 
tunate child ! ” 

Marie-Anne Besnard was then twenty-two 
years old. Very homely and keenly sensitive 
about her utter lack of beauty, the usual expres- 
sion of her face was profoundly melancholy. 
H er head was buried in her shoulders ; she was 
almost a humpback ; her thin wan face was 
ashy pale, and underneath her large blue eyes 
dark circles could be seen. Her hair, worn flat 
on the temples, had that discolored tint which 
is popularly called “ albino blonde,” a sure sign 


WORDS AND CONSCIENCE 


8l 


of the wretched quality of the blood. Her way 
of dressing was austere to a degree, her brown 
silk dress, without any trimming, fell around 
her like a bag, and a tulle ruche enveloped her 
neck, hiding perhaps some blemish. She was 
the sad picture of youth faded before ever 
blooming. 

“ Enough, darling,” interrupted Count Bes- 
nard, surprised by the excitement of the little 
virtuoso . “ How pale you are this morning ! 

Are you suffering? ” 

“ I am the same as every day, father ; indeed 
more cheerful than other days, for is not to-day 
your birthday ? ” 

“You are too lonely, dear child,” resumed 
the father ; “ I wish you would take some rec- 
reation.” 

“ Recreation?” she asked, with a sad smile. 

“You ought to have gone to the ball at the 
Tuileries with your brother, last night.” 

The poor girl blushed : 

“Oh! father! cruel father!” she suddenly 
cried, rising and taking a few steps around the 
room. One could see then that Mademoiselle 
Besnard, this sickly, homely and suffering girl, 
was, beside, lame and a cripple. The old man 
rushed to her, caught her in his arms and said : 

“ Oh ! pardon me ! pardon me, my beloved 
child ! ” And he sorrowfully embraced the 
frail creature ; but she said caressingly : 

6 


82 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


“ Oh ! father, even if God had been willing to 
make the sad Marie-Anne like other women, 
she would not change her way of living. As 
you live, I shall live.” At that moment, the 
door opened and Marcel walked in. 

On coming home, the young man had first 
gone to his room to take off his uniform and 
put on citizen’s clothes ; he came in with his 
gloves on, holding his hat in his hand, ready to 
go out again. 

Count Besnard gave him a glance which 
plainly showed his anger and scorn ; then, with- 
out a word, he sat down. 

Slowly, Marcel advanced and stood in front 
of him. 

“ Father, please excuse my absence on such 
a day ; but I have not been able to come home 
sooner. I am about fighting a duel.” 

A violent spasm shook the old man’s frame ; 
still he controlled himself, and, with apparent 
indifference said : 

“A duel, sir? Receive my congratulations ! 
and for what motive, if I may ask? ” 

“ To defend my honor — yours, father.” 

“ My honor?” exclaimed the Count, rising. 
“ My honor, did you say ? Who has dared at- 
tack it ?” 

“ Last night, during the court ball, an insolent 
man did not fear to call our family, ‘ an exe- 
cutioner’s race.’ He was outraging my grand- 


WORDS AND CONSCIENCE 


83 


father ; you, father, and all of us. The insult 
was public, the answer was public, too — I slap- 
ped his face ” 

“And you are going to kill him to-day ! ” 
cried Marie-Anne shuddering. 

Standing now very pale, Count Besnard was 
looking at his son, but with an expression of 
infinite love. His Marcel ! He might have 
been thoughtless, like so many others, even 
fast, in his ways, alas ! but loyal he still re- 
mained and full of courage ! A brave heart ! 
The father held out his hand : 

“You did right, my son ! Worship honor! 
It is one of the grandest obligations which God 
has imposed upon man. In such an emergency, 
dueling is lawful ; it is the preserver of honor, 
and on this point society is right and the law is 
wrong. But what is the name of the insulter ? ” 

“A certain Prince di Carpegna.” 

“An Italian ! That explains it ; and how old 
is he ? ” 

The son was intently looking at his father; 
the expression of his face frightened him. He 
saw that a terrible wrath was taking possession 
of the old man, and that doubtless he was 
thinking of avenging himself. 

He suddenly thought it better to tell a “ white 
lie.” “ How old? Well, about as old as I am. 
It is a quarrel between young men.” 

“ Still you struck him ? ” 


84 the court OF NAPOLEON III 


“ Pshaw ! ” said Marcel, lightly ; “ a quick 
answer on my part brought out what they 
call in comedies, “ a sudden invitation to break- 
fast !’” 

“ You deceive me. What are the conditions ? ” 
“ It’s all a mere farce ! A picnic ; an exchange 
of bullets at twenty-five paces distant ! ” 

“You understand handling a pistol, I know. 
Who are your seconds?” 

“ My friend Gravenoire and Baron La Ches- 
naye.” 

“ I would have preferred some others ; and 
where is the encounter to take place ? ” 

“At Vaucresson, in Gravenoire’s park.” 

“ All right ! I go with you ! ” 

The young man stretched out his arm as if 
to bar the way to his father. 

“ I beg of you, sir, not to come with me. 
That would only make me ridiculous ! ” 

“Ridiculous!” Count Besnard fell back, 
half fainting; a dizziness had come over him. 
His legs refused to bear him ; the blood whizzed 
in his ears ; he felt his heart shrinking ; it was 
an agonizing moment. With a violent effort 
he recovered himself, and even had the courage 
to smile. 

“This is a pretty harsh word, my son; but 
be it so, I shall remain ! I have no wish to 
make you ridiculous.” 

A painful silence followed the sharp reproof. 



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WORDS AND CONSCIENCE 85 

Marcel was the first to speak, but this time it 
was in solemn tones. 

“ I am going to fight, father, and punish an 
insulter. May I dare to ask you a question ?” 

“A question, Marcel? I listen.” 

“ Father, what crime had the Italian, Savelli, 
committed?” 

The old man looked at his son. “ Savelli? 
What do you wish me to tell you about him ? 
It is an old story, very sad, and pretty well 
known.” 

“ No ; not known as it ought to be ! I was 
in Paris, far from you, when it happened — this 
terrible story. You never thought it best to 
speak to me about it ; I know of it only through 
hearsay — all lies and calumnies! Oh, out of 
pity, sir, tell me ; what had this unfortunate 
Savelli done ? ” 

Count Besnard did not answer at once. For 
a few seconds his hand went back and forth 
from his forehead to his eyes, as if he tried to 
collect his thoughts. Finally he straightened 
up: 

“ Then you, too — you doubt, my son ! ” he 
exclaimed. “ Well, then, listen! After the 
deliverance which the ‘Coup d’etat’ of the 
second of December secured for us all, there 
was a disturbance in the South. Bands of 
rioters — real brigands, they were — scoured the 
country. They entered villages, plundered 


86 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


houses, burned churches ; they were nothing 
but vagabonds ! At that time I was Prose- 
cutor-General of that particular circuit, and I 
was chosen to preside at a Joint Commission. 
Orders from Paris requested me to use the 
severest measures, and my duty forbade all 
weakness. So, severe I was. Among those 
people, some had simply been led into this 
trouble ; for them, I showed myself merciful ; 
but there were in this gang many criminals, 
leaders of civil wars, troublesome anarchists, 
despisers of social laws, blasphemers of eternal 
laws ; toward those I was merciless. One of 
those bands had for its chief a certain Scipione 
Savelli — a Mazzinian and a political refugee, 
who had been under watch for a long time. 
He had no country he could call his own — 
that cosmopolitan revolutionist, dealing in riots 
and wholesale murders. As all his kind did, 
he wished dishonor and destruction to our 
France — I mean monarchial and Christian 
France, the great France of our ancestors — I 
dared not spare him. He was caught stand- 
ing on a barricade, from where he had just 
shot down two of our soldiers with his own 
hands. The officers in command had him shot 
right there, but, somehow, he survived his 
wounds. Then — — ” 

Brutus Besnard stopped ; perhaps he did 
not dare finish. 


WORDS AND CONSCIENCE 87 

“ Then they shot him a second time ! ” 
stammered Marcel, bending his head. 

“Yes, a second time!” cried the former 
Prosecutor-General, vehemently, “ for had he 
not killed twice ? Oh ! I know, I know, the 
humble life of our soldiers, what is that com- 
pared to the priceless existence of those 
sublime ‘ liberators of humanity?’ Let the 
riot of June annihilate a whole army — 
the executioners are cheered to the skies. 
But let one dare to touch these gentle- 
men of the anarchist clubs — abomination of 
abominations ! Martyrs, all ! If, on the Boule- 
vard Bonne-Nouvelle an unfortunate regiment 
be chosen as a target for the bullets of the 
insurgents, that’s all right and just ; but let 
our soldiers dare to defend themselves, and let 
them shoot back, that is infamous ! Ah ! but 
such is not my view of things, and my con- 
science is not that of a writer of libels. Scip- 
ione Savelli had killed. He was killed. He 
wished to overthrow France; France had to 
dispose of him. Don’t touch the holy ark, 
gentlemen — it is death ! I applied to him the 
eternal law : retaliation which the evangelist 
himself approves of — I regret nothing.” 

“ Shot a second time ! ” repeated Marcel. 

“ Like many others,” pursued Brutus Besnard, 
“ I might have easily played the comedy of Pon- 
tius Pilate — wash my hands and say : ‘ The 


88 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


court-martial has condemned ; let it be respon- 
sible ! ’ I have not wished to do so. I myself 
ardently solicited the sentence ; I insisted on the 
execution. It was I, truly, who have done jus- 
tice. Oh ! they know it well the ‘ brothers and 
friends/ the members of the secret societies. 
From that day their hate broke loose against 
me ; they cast insults upon insults at me ; they 
subjected me to all sorts of outrages. But 
what is their sting to me, since my conscience 
has never reproached me? For five years, at 
all hours, I have communed with God ; and 
not once has that God responded to me : ‘ the 
blood cries out against thee ! * No ; I can verily 
say I regret nothing ! ” 

He stopped speaking; the son also kept si- 
lent. Then, stretching out his arms, the old 
man of justice took a crucifix, placed it on the 
table, and presented it to Marcel : 

“ Deny it not; thou hast lied to me. Your 
duel is to be a mortal combat ; I feel it ; I know 
it. Before the end of the day, perhaps, he who 
bears my name — the object of my great love, 
my child, my poor child — will have been strick- 
en in defense of his father’s honor. Now, look. 
Here is my Master, the Judge who condemns or 
absolves judges. On the cross that bore Him, 
I put my hand, and I repeat : I have done my 
duty ; I regret nothing ! ” 

Silence succeeded again after this supreme 


WORDS AND CONSCIENCE 89 

objurgation. Slowly Marcel Besnard ap- 
proached his father ; kneeling before him, he 
kissed his hand. 

“ Pardon me, father,” he whispered. “ I also 
have doubted.” 

The old man embraced his son again and 
again. Finally, he said, speaking in slow, im- 
pressive accents : 

“ Go, dear son ; fulfill thy duty towards me, 
as I believe to have fulfilled mine towards my 
country; and on this day let God judge me.” 

The young man raised himself with bright 
eyes and a happy face, 

“ He shall judge us both, father, for I shall 
return to you victorious ! Nov r , it is time for 
me to go.” 

Count Besnard accompanied Marcel as far as 
the door of his chamber ; then pressed him to 
his bosom a long time. 

“ Know,” said he, “ that if you die, I die ! ” 

The door of his retreat had hardly closed, 
than the unfortunate “ Count Brutus” leaned 
unsteadily against the wall. He shuddered as 
with a chill ; perspiration stood on his brow, 
and all the objects in the room began to whirl 
before him, very gently at first, then quicker, 
then whirling frightfully. 

“ Savelli ! ” gasped he. “ Ah ! Savelli ! ” and 
he fell in a dead swoon. 



MARIE-ANNE 



A LREADY Marcel Besnard had gone down 
rapidly two-thirds of the stairs, when he 
heard a supplicating voice calling him back. It 
was Marie-Anne, the frail, lame sister, who was 
trying to catch up with him. 

“ Marcel ! Marcel ! ” 

Her voice was so full of tears that the young 
man stopped short, moved by her entreaties. 

When she was near, she said in a voice full 
of anguish : 

“ You were goingaway, without having even 
said good-bye to me ! ” 

He stooped down and kissed her on the 
forehead, saying: 

“ Do not cry, little one ! This duel is only 
fun for me. Besides, it is not my first en- 
counter, you know, and I handle a pistol pretty 
well ; your brother has a fine record among 
the best Parisian marksmen. I shall make the 
shot tell, this time ; the impertinent fellow will 
receive what he deserves; and I shall be back to 
dinner with a good appetite. Order something 
good for to-night.” 

He spoke cheerfully, as if his mind was per- 

(93) 


94 THE court of napoleon III 

fectly free from any anxiety, as if he were 
going to a place of amusement ; but a slight 
tremor moved his lips. Though very brave, 
the beloved brother felt his heart beating. 
Would he come back, or be brought back? 

“ Marcel ! Marcel ! ” repeated Marie-Anne, 
unable to utter another word. 

Once more he pressed her hands, and ran 
down the last flight of stairs. 

On the avenue in front of the mansion a 
carriage was in attendance ; through her open 
window Marie-Anne noticed two gentlemen, 
who seemed to be waiting impatiently ; her 
brother’s seconds, no doubt. At the first glance, 
the lame girl recognized them ; the young M. 
de Gravenoire, with his beard well trimmed ; 
and old Baron La Chesnaye, with his arched 
nose, long mustache, and scanty hair against his 
temples. Those gentlemen bowed to her, and 
Marcel having stepped into the carriage, it 
drove away rapidly. 

A cold, harsh November wind was blowing ; 
the old trees were dropping their last rusty 
leaves; dark clouds hung in the atmosphere, 
and a few snowflakes were beginning to whiten 
the dusty pavement. 

Immovable, bareheaded, Marie-Anne was 
still looking. The carriage had disappeared for 
sometime, and Marie-Anne stood there, as in a 
trance. 


MARIE-ANNE 95 

The voice of one of the servants drew her 
away from this silent contemplation. 

“ Mademoiselle, you are covered with snow ! 
You will be ill.” 

The young girl shook her garments, with- 
drew her head and allowed the window to be 
closed. 

Madamoiselle Marie-Anne’s room was very 
different from that which her father’s proud 
humility enjoyed ; it was charmingly decorated ; 
all white and blue. 

Count Besnard had himself chosen his daugh- 
ter’s furniture ; the silk plush curtains and por- 
tieres, the armchairs and sofa, white and azure, 
and especially the bed, where he thought, the 
child would rest under the open wings of a 
guardian angel. It was he who had filled the 
shelves of her little bookcase with religious 
books ; he who had placed in a discreet shadow 
the praying stool from where, in the morning 
when getting up, and in the evening at bed- 
time, the soul of the girl kneeling on it, went 
up to heaven ; this holy-water cup of brilliant 
onyx, this crucifix in a velvet frame, were 
presents from the old father ; and, on the man- 
telpiece over a cheerful fire was his last gift : 
the good Lady of La Salette, the virgin of the 
little shepherds. There she was, in her queer 
attire, this mysterious apparition, looking so 
sad, so loving, and as if saying: “The hand of 


9 6 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

my Son is heavy ; I can no longer hold it 
back.” 

Marie-Anne entered this dainty retreat and 
her eyes avoided looking at the Merciful Christ 
or at the Mother of all sufferers. She walked 
towards the window and painfully sat down by 
her writing desk, where she remained for some- 
time motionless. Finally she took a sheet of 
paper and blushing feverishly, she began to 
write : 

“ To my Father : — I Marcel is killed to-day 
I shall not survive him. I wish to die. 

“I implore the pardon of Jesus and of the 
Holy Virgin ; on my knees, I beg your pardon, 
my father. 

“ Knowing that I am for all an object of scorn 
and repulsion, I have suffered a great deal, and 
I cannot suffer any longer. 

“ I leave all my money to the Institution of 
the Good Shepherd. I shall have so much need 
of prayers ! I ” 

She stopped and let fall her pen. 

“ Miserable girl ! ” she cried. “ Oh ! miserable, 
miserable girl ! ” 

With a scared gesture, Marie-Anne went to 
the fire, threw into it the wretched letter, and 
kindled the flame, so that the acknowledgment 
of her despair was soon nothing but ashes. 

The praying-stool then seemed to attract her 
attention. She seized the rosary which hung 


MARIE-ANNE 


97 


on the wall, and began a prayer : “ Our Father, 

who art in the heavens, hallowed ” but she 

stopped there, and, looking at the crucifix, she 
cried, in a hoarse whisper : “ So you have deigned 
to create me homely, deformed, ridiculous ; and 
that did not suffice. In this infirm body, out of 
kindness, you have wished to place the heart of 
a wretch ; and I call you ‘ Our Father ! * ” 

She stopped again and resumed her prayers : 

“ Hail, Mary, full of grace, the ” Suddenly, 

“ Enough,” she said, getting up, “ I do not be- 
lieve ; I do not ! How can I believe ? ” 

Her eyes shone, her face took an almost sin- 
ister expression. And while saying these words, 
she had opened her bookcase, and was stealth- 
ily slipping her hand in it. 

There, on the shelves, was a first row of 
pious books, such as Imitations of the Holy 
Virgin , Marie's Rose Bushes and Guides to a 
Good Death. She put them aside and brought 
forward a book which had been carefully hidden 
behind : probably some volume stolen from 
Count Besnard’s collection. The pages in some 
places showed that they had been read, reread, 
meditated upon and understood. 

After making sure that the door was closed 
and bolted, Marie-Anne went towards the win- 
dow, stretched her emaciated body on an arm- 
chair, opened at random the forbidden book 
and commenced reading : 

7 


98 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

“ I perceived one day that my sister lost her 
health and rest. She was getting thin, her eyes 
were sunken, her walk languid and her voice 
faltering. One day I found her all in tears, 
kneeling before a crucifix. Company, solitude, 
my absence, my presence, night, day, every* 
thing alarmed her. Involuntary sighs would 
escape her lips ; sometimes she could endure 
a long walk without getting tired ; at other 
times she could scarcely drag' herself about. 
She would take up, and then drop, her work, 
open a book and not read it ; she would begin 
a sentence which was never finished ; would 
finally melt in tears and retire to pray.” 

Marie-Anne stopped reading ; she shuddered ; 
a sudden blush spread over her pale features ; 
her large blue eyes, circled with black, shone 
strangely. “Yes, that’s what it is!” she mur- 
mured. “Alas ! it is too true ! ” 

She closed the book and remained, for a few 
moments, still and thoughtful. 

“ Oh ! ” she said, at last, clasping her hands, 
“ may God have pity on me ! ” 

Nevertheless, she reopened the book, turned 
a few leaves and began to read again. 

“A wife, my brother, and children would 
occupy your mind. And what woman would 
not try to render you happy? Your loving 
heart, your noble and affectionate manner, your 
proud and tender eyes ; everything would make 


MARIE-ANNE 


99 


her true to you. Ah ! With what delight she 
would embrace you in her arms ! All her 
thoughts and looks would be yours ; would 
soothe your troubles. She would be all love 
and innocence in your presence ; you would 
think you had found a sister again.” 

“ Found a sister again ! Oh, no ! ” she said 
with rage. “ No ; I prefer him as he is — court- 
ing all women, rather than to have him love 
one — one which would not be myself ! ” And 
suddenly, Marie-Anne raising her head, saw 
her own image reflected in the mirror. Yes, 
here she was, with her pale face, her repulsive 
homeliness, her nose too short, her mouth too 
large, her lips too thick. She saw herself, and 
a smile of derision and desolation made her 
homeliness almost grotesque. 

“Rent’s sister, at least, was beautiful, and 
she could be loved ! ” stammered the unfortu- 
nate girl ; “ but I, oh ! I, with the blood of the 
sacrilegious renegade in my veins; I, the grand- 
daughter of the priest and the actress ! ” 

At that moment a discreet knock at the door 
startled her. She threw the book under a piece 
of furniture and hurried to open. 

“ Come quickly, mademoiselle,” cried Count 
Besnard’s servant ; “ your father has fainted 
away ! ” 



TWO PISTOL SHOTS 



















































O N the broad highway which leads to Saint- 
Germain, passing through Garche and 
Vaucresson the carriage was driving rapidly. 
The sky had been cleared of clouds, and the 
snow by the roadside was shining in the sun 
like diamond dust. They seemed to be hav- 
ing a jolly time inside that carriage. The 
two gentlemen, La Chesnaye and Gravenoire, 
smoked and talked, their minds as placid as 
if they had been going to some fine repast at 
the Maison d' or , or to some reception in the 
Pigalle quarter. Marcel Besnard was more 
reserved, almost taciturn. He occupied the 
back seat with the jolly Chamberlain ; in front 
of them sat Gravenoire with a solemn looking 
individual, the doctor. On the lap of Grave- 
noire rested a mahogany box containing the 
pistols. The Chamberlain, Baron de La 
Chesnaye, felt in a talkative mood, and told 
no end of risky anecdotes and doubtful 
puns : 

“ Ah ! dear friend/’ said he to Marcel, “ what 
a dismal pleasure a duel is ! You are going to 
play the principal part, you fortunate man, 

(103) 


104 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

while we are but figureheads ! Are you 
pleased with those pistols ? ” 

He opened the box and took out bran-new 
arms : 

“ Good pistols, as was agreed. I chose them 
with hard triggers, the safety finger pull! So, 
nothing to fear on that score.” 

“So much the worse,” replied Marcel; “I 
would like to give that man a lesson that would 
prove useful in the present and in the future.” 

Gravenoire remarked : 

“ We had prepared an explanatory note for 
the society papers. Our adversaries objected 
to the way it was worded, and, as after all, they 
are the attacked party ” 

“What kind of men are the seconds of the 
Prince ? ” interrupted Marcel. 

“Italians,” said La Chesnaye ; “one with a 
name ending in <2, Count Canossa, I think ” 

“ Good Lombard nobility ! ” supplemented 
Gravenoire. 

“And a man in i, II Signor Traventi. Ah ! 
per Bacco ! what a man, a real clown, that 
one ! Would you believe it, but this morning 
when we came together to settle this affair, I 
I thought I recognized in this man (but I was 
mistaken, of course,) an old acquaintance of 
mine, an Italian who served in the foreign 
corps, when I was the commander of a battalion. 
His name was Marino ; a good-for-nothing, 







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TWO PISTOL SHOTS 


105 


who in some way or other managed to become 
a sergeant ; but one day he ran away and went 
to join Mazzini in Rome.” 

While chatting in that way they had reached 
a certain cross-road named the Hubies ; at that 
place one of the highways led towards Celle- 
Saint-Cloud and Bougival. The brilliant baron 
put his head out of the window : “ Well, there, 
wasn’t I telling you so? We are late! The 
others are waiting for us.” 

In fact, in front of an inn, a carriage was 
standing, and two gentlemen impatiently 
walked to and fro. 

“ The seconds of the adversary ! ” said Grav- 
enoire. “ I am going to give them the proper 
directions : it will be best for them to follow 
us.” 

He jumped out and ran up to the other 
party. “ Well, well ! what do I see over 
there ? ” said La Chesnaye, with his head still 
out of the window : “ The deuce ! what a hand- 
some coupe ! a blooded horse ; tasteful livery! 
and the shades down ! I suspect a love affair.” 

The younger nobleman was already back. 

“ Whose carriage is this ? ” asked the inquisi- 
tive Chamberlain. “You, the lord of these 
parts, you ought to know.” 

“I am sorry to say I don’t! Forward!” 
this to the coachman. 

A few minutes later, their carriage was driv- 


106 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

ing through a gate and along the avenue of a 
park. 

“ This is the place ! This is my place/' said 
Monsieur de Gravenoire, who ordered the 
coachman to stop. The four alighted, and al- 
most at once the second carriage arrived. 

Accompanied by both his seconds, Prince di 
Carpegna stepped out of it ; he had also 
brought a physician along. The two parties 
exchanged the customary bows; then under 
the guidance of Gravenoire, the little group 
penetrated the thicket. Soon they came to a 
large open space surrounded with immense 
horsechestnuts. Made bare by the bites of the 
first frost, these trees had covered the soil with 
their damp leaves, and their mossy branches 
seemed to writhe with suffering. From this 
opening, one could look over a great distance 
on a sad landscape : the Seine running at the 
foot of the Bougival hill, with its wrinkled and 
shivering waters, lighted by a cold November 
sun ; to the left, was a superposition of woods 
and gardens decked with last, discolored leaves, 
and behind all this winter's rust, one could 
distinguish the arches of the aqueduct of 
Marly covered with ice. Opposite was the city 
of Saint Germain, with its white houses 
crowned with the bluish spirals of their smoke ; 
then, beyond, in the ashy gray of the horizon, 
were the indistinct forms of the hills drowned 


TWO PISTOL SHOTS 10/ 

in vapors. This whole part of the country, 
valleys, islands, villages, so noisy on summer 
evenings, was now mournful and melancholy. 
The sun was rapidly going down, and the red 
hues of its disk permeated the mist rising from 
the river. Everywhere already, the heavy si- 
lence of days coming to an end without any 
song from the birds ; everywhere the heavy 
lethargy of winter. 

Yes, Marcel Besnard had told his father a 
positive lie ; this meeting was to be a serious 
affair, and the duel promised to be one of the 
most dangerous on record. 

Prince di Carpegna, having been struck in 
public, had had the right of dictating the condi- 
tions ; they were that the adversaries should 
be placed twenty paces apart, with permission 
to take five steps ahead, and for one minute, to 
aim before firing. Assuredly, one or the other, 
both perhaps, were to fall. 

The seconds unanimously chose La Chesnaye 
to direct operations ; it was not an easy office, 
for it was difficult to walk on this thick layer 
of slippery leaves. But the doughty baron had 
gone through worse than that. 

Taking long strides, he counted twenty paces, 
marked the place where the combatants were 
to stand at the beginning, and then, with his 
cane, traced the boundary lines. Fate gave 
Marcel Besnard the choice of weapons. 


108 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

These preliminaries being settled, each one 
took his stand, the seconds and doctors in a 
row at the side. “ Ready, gentlemen ! ” cried 
La Chesnaye, with his most sonorous and com- 
manding voice. “Go!” Marcel Besnard ad- 
vanced, stretched out his hand, and fired. 

Touched ! Prince di Carpegna, shot in the 
groin, staggered. Still he braced up. Slowly, 
scarcely able to drag himself, he walked to the 
boundary line ; slowly he lowered his pistol and 
aimed at Marcel Besnard. 

Marcel, very calm, had crossed his arms. 

“ Fire ! Why don’t you fire ! ” cried Grave- 
noire. 

“ Fire ! confound it ! ” howled Baron La Ches- 
naye. 

Carpegna was about pulling the trigger, when 
a slight rustle in the bushes took away his at- 
tention. He looked and then smiled, a quiet, 
strange smile. 

Raising his arm he fired at random. Sud- 
denly he fell to the ground in a swoon. 

The seconds hurried, leaned over his body, 
and the doctor examined the wound. The 
prince had some bone crushed and was losing a 
great deal of blood ; the ball had disappeared 
in the lower abdomen. 

“ He must be taken to my cottage,” M. de 
Gravenoire said. “ I have had a room pre- 
pared.” 


TWO PISTOL SHOTS 109 

“ It is not wanted, my dear sir,” answered 
Signor Traventi. “ If his lordship could speak, 
he would refuse it.” 

“ But he will never be able to endure the 
journey. That would be killing him.” 

The Italian doctor appeared rather perplexed, 
and insisted on accepting Gravenoire’s offer. 

“A dangerous wound,” he muttered ; “ very, 
very bad.” 

“ No matter,” Traventi answered, in violent 
tones, “we must carry him off.” 

Already, the other second of the Prince had 
started to go and called the carriage. The 
surgeon applied a first dressing ; then, every 
one helping, they raised the wounded man, and 
succeeded, with a great deal of trouble, in 
reaching the avenue where they stretched him 
on the cushions of the carriage ; the three Ital- 
ians crowding around him who was still uncon- 
scious. “ Andiamo ! Andiamo ,” they repeated, 
and the carriage went on its way, like a 
funeral. 

Standing in the middle of the road, Marcel's 
friends were looking at the cortege, disappear- 
ing in the mist. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the French doctor, “ let 
us uncover our heads before this hearse. It 
will bring to Paris a corpse.” 



VIII 

LA SAVELLI 




!\ - 










V 







a 














S URPRISED and thoughful, Viscount Bes- 
nard had remained behind ; M. de Grave- 
noire went to him. 

' “A good shot, my dear fellow ; bravo ! But 
what a strange duel ! It reminds me of the 
famous, romantic duel by a Russian writer, 
— you know, the shot of Pouchkine.” 

“ Yes, I remember,” said Marcel, little by 
little recovering his self-possession ; “ this duel 
where the aggrieved party faces his adversary’s 
bullet and keeps his for a better opportunity. 
We shall see ! ” 

“ Gentlemen,” cried La Chesnaye, lighting 
his twentieth cigar, “ night is coming fast and 
we are hungry. I move that we go and cele- 
brate the victory in a fine supper at the 
Maison d' Or .” 

“No! here ends my part in this affair,” 
answered Marcel ; “ I am hurrying to my 
father.” 

They walked out of the park, and soon 
Marcel Besnard and his seconds entered their 
carriage. 

At that moment, a woman could have been 
8 (113) 


1 14 the court of NAPOLEON lit 

seen cautiously gliding out of the thicket, now 
plunged in darkness. She took her stand in 
the middle of the road, looked at the fast dis- 
appearing carriage, and, with a nervous laugh 
and theatrical gesture, she said in a loud voice : 

“ Fool, who allowed himself to be killed ! A 
real suicide, nothing more! Fool! Well, we 
have to settle this between us, Brutus Besnard ! 
between us — you, the White Butcher! ” 

Her coupe was waiting for her at a cross- 
road and she hurriedly walked toward it. 

“ We go back to Pass y,” she said to the 
coachman. But a little farther she command- 
ed him to stop. 

A cafe, a third-class, suburban place, was 
lighted up and showed its sign. The woman 
entered and asked for pen and ink ; and there, 
in this low place, filled with tobacco-smoke, 
she wrote on a visiting card the following lines: 
To Monsieur le Vicomte Marcel Besnard: 

I was there ; I saw it all, and without a moment’s delay 
and on the very spot where the duel took place, I dare 
to write you. You have punished his insults and 
avenged your father. It is one’s clear duty to avenge 
one’s father. If the Des Jardins street, my retreat in 
Passy, does not seem to you the end of the world, come 
and see me. I expect you. 

Rosina, born Countess d’ A’Prata, 

At last free ! 


PART THE SECOND. 


I 

History of a Lordly residence 


/ 



T HE highway which leads from Havre to 
Abbeville is perhaps the most monoton- 
ously straight line the genius of our modern 
civil engineering ever conceived. Between the 
valley of Fecamp and the ravine of Cany, this 
road, parallel with the sea, and but at a little dis- 
tance from it, crosses the plateau of the Cau- 
chois cliffs, through a despairingly uninteresting 
country. In December the winds sweep the 
whole of this elevation, and both northwest 
and northeast winds pelt it with either rain or 
snow; in July the sun scorches there, and the 
Normand carts roll, unprotected by any shade, 
in the dust and amidst swarms of insects. When 
fall comes, after the harvest, one sees nothing 
but plowed fields, where trefoil grows between 
the furrows. Here and there oxen are asleep in 
the clover, while innumerable crows alight to pick 
up the worms in the newly tilled earth. A few 
settlements are to be seen in the dim distance ; 
isolated hamlets, looking like reefs in the midst 
of a calm ocean. There, no doubt, sad or joy- 
ous, must be life behind those rows of big 
trees; but everywhere else the space is mo- 

( 1 1 7 ) 


1 1 8 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


notorious to a degree, and “ ennui ” weighs 
heavily. 

At about nine miles from the small town of 
Cany, and opposite an inn, with these words 
upon its weather-beaten signs : “ To the Tranquil 
Heart ! Pure-blooded cider ! ” begins a narrow 
road, which, leading to the seacoast soon ends 
at Sasseville. 

This community of Sasseville is a homely 
borough, full of petty conceit on account of its 
brand new church and city hall, full of political 
cafes, where the Normand, who is very fond of 
his dram, can drink and discuss all he cares to. 
This big village, Sassototum apud Caletas , ac- 
cording to its archeological vicar, enjoys a 
certain renown in the surrounding country ; not 
certainly on account of its ancient origin, evi- 
dently Gallo-Roman ; but on account of its 
much-frequented fowl market. Besides, Sasse- 
ville prides itself upon its castle. 

Long ago this castle was considered magnifi- 
cent ; it was really the jewel of the Mauconduit 
estates. Under Louis XVI, however, these 
“ lords” of Sasseville had so unluckily tackled 
the God of Chance and so much borrowed from 
the Jews, that finally their creditors had ob- 
tained a decree against them. The consequence 
was that the castle had to be given up. The 
Revolution came and completed the ruin of the 
poor chateau, by declaring it national property, 


HISTORY OF A LORDLY RESIDENCE 1 1 9 

and changing its chapel into a storage place for 
feed. Then the Republic had parted with it 
and sold it to the highest bidder. Oh, it went 
off for very little — scarcely one million francs — 
in frightfully depreciated paper money, too ; 
besides, as soon as it was bought it was sold 
again — from a Jacobin to a Thermidorian. 
From bad to worse ! 

The Empire had brought back a few happy 
days for Sasseville. Rebuilt by its new owner, 
in a superb Greco Percier style, the castle, from 
that time on, presented an imposing appear- 
ance, a goodly pile of stone and brick, a monu- 
mental reality. 

A park with shady winding paths surrounded 
it, and nowhere, a hundred leagues around, 
could one find broader lawns. At that time, 
when guitar and clavecin were the fashion, its 
beauties inspired many a rural poet. 

During the first few years of the Restoration, 
this former “ national property ” belonged to 
a notable citizen of Yvetot, a certain Evariste 
Pousset, manufacturer of cotton goods, and one 
of the kings of this country of popular kings. 

It was about that time that Henri de Saints 
Simon, who was not yet a prophet, kept asking 
that France should be regenerated by industry 
and “ industrialism;” he had even invented this 
fine word. It was the time when the Constitu- 
tionel was preaching the double alliance of the 


120 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


old feudal throne with “ the laurels of Victory 
and the olive branch of Peace. ,, In Sasseville, 
they approved of those ideas and understood 
this prose. Besides Monsieur Pousset was a 
republican, proudly calling himself “ the son of 
his work,” or “ a self-made man,” or “ his own 
ancestor ; ” he sang Beranger and admired 
Laffitte. 

On the other side, this enemy of feudal ignor- 
ance ardently wished to ennoble his daughter, 
and, on a certain summer day, Mademoiselle 
Hortense Pousset became Countess Brutus 
Besnard ; then, this marriage consummated, the 
good man, who was his own ancestor, had gone 
to join his real forefathers, and the chapel at 
Sasseville was turned into a gothic tomb. 

For twelve years, Countess Besnard, a small, 
sickly, deformed person, had followed her hus- 
band’s fortunes as a judge, wearied and 
wearisome. She had given him two children ; 
but, as there is an end to everything in this 
world, she, too, had gone to join her father, 
and become the second inmate of the tomb at 
Sasseville under the gothic ogives. 

In dividing her dowry, the Castle and its 
surroundings had fallen to the lot of the only 
son and heir, Monsieur le Vicomte Louis- 
D6sire-Marcel Besnard. 

One may guess what a great commotion 
shook to the foundations the pious parishes of 


HISTORY OF A LORDLY RESIDENCE 12 1 


Cany and Valmont, when, in the month of 
August, 1857, Viscount Marcel Besnard, who 
had been so far a model of propriety, came on 
a protracted visit to his estate, accompanied by 
a woman. 

As he was yet a bachelor, and as in the sur- 
rounding manors there were plenty of mothers 
in possession of marriageable daughters, these 
began to circulate right away the most unpleas- 
ant rumors. The young man who was thought 
so charming, such a fine dancer, so unusually 
intelligent, and with a magnificent future before 
him, was suddenly transformed — according to 
public gossip — into an ill-shaped, stupid volup- 
tuary, incapable of succeeding in any career. It 
was worse yet when people heard that the 
“ creature ” who was installed at the castle, 
was an Italian, a princess and a widow — wid- 
owed from a husband whom the cynical 
Viscount had killed. What a dreadful scandal ! 
No respectable citizen noticed the guilty 
couple ; the worst jokes concerning them had 
full sway ; calumny followed suit in the cafes 
of Sasseville, the Normand boys devoted to 
them their riskiest songs, and even the arche- 
ological-inclined vicar was heard quoting from 
some old classic : 

“Ah ! how does one dare inherit from him 
he has assassinated ? ” 








DANTE’S INFERNO, V. 106 


*/ . 
/ 










Y ES, indeed, Viscount Besnardhad not been 
long collecting, for his own benefit, the 
conjugal inheritance the man he had killed 
left behind him. The very day following the 
eventful duel, the young assessor had received 
a letter, in a slender and graceful writing, 
postmarked “ Vaucresson,” and reading as 
follows : 

“You have punished his insults and avenged 
your father. It is one’s clear duty to avenge 
one’s father. If the Des Jardins street, my 
retreat in Passy, does not seem to you the end 
of the world, come and see me. I expect you.” 
Signed : “ Rosina , born Countess d A Prata, at 
last free.” 

At last free ! Ah ! woman, woman ! and three 
days later — he did observe the proprieties to 
that extent — Marcel, climbing the hill of Passy, 
rang the bell at the door of “ the retreat.” 

It was a very elegant retreat, even too luxu- 
rious for a truly respectable woman. But are 
not all Italians fond of show and bright colors? 
She looked so confiding, this lovely daughter of 
Lombardy. Imprudent, perhaps, but really so 

(125) 


126 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

honest at heart. Marcel was sure of it now, 
for she had confided in him.” 

At the first meeting, the princess had told 
him her whole history ; a painful history full of 
commonplace realities. When quite young, 
almost a child, they had married her out of am- 
bition, to an old, depraved, whimsically wicked 
man, a former Carbonaro , a bloodthirsty, fero- 
cious beast. 

“ I, too,” she said with her eyes full of tears, 
“ I might, like so many others, have had a 
lover. I could have chosen among a score of 
ardent admirers; but the Holy Virgin, and es- 
pecially the memory of my pious and saintly 
mother, kept me in the right path. She had 
never known love. Oh ! to know love ! Poor 
woman ! ” 

And, the next day, Marcel was back in the 
Rue des Jardins; the day after that, he was 
there again — and then 

Then, he had taken her into his own house, 
his Rosina — all to himself, in the solitude of his 
castle now peopled by her, among the flowery 
bushes, rocked by the murmur of the neighbor- 
ing sea. He loved, loved wildly with his whole 
passionate heart. But she ? 

At times, he found her strangely sad and 
quiet, as if grieving over something. “ I love 
you,” she would say, “ and I despise and hate 
myself !” No doubt, she felt her position, was 


dante’s inferno, v. 106 127 

cruelly disturbed by remorse, religious scruples, 
what not ? 

Marcel decided then that they should marry 
as quickly as possible ; but he did not tell her 
so. He thought he must first silence calumny. 

Still, calumny did not trouble him much ; its 
voice never reached him. He lived in solitude, 
made no calls, gave up all pleasures, wrapped 
up in his love. 

But she imitated not his reserve ; she had no 
modesty, no discretion. She was a true Italian ; 
intelligent, educated, but full of the silliest su- 
perstitions. She showed it on all occasions. 

One evening, seated near the lamp, they were 
translating Alighieri’s immortal poem and, in 
the Inferno , the episode of Francesca; they 
had come to this memorable line, the finest, 
perhaps, of the divine poet : 

Love, who never allows the loved one not to love. 

Suddenly she grabbed the book, closed it 
violently and threw it away. 

And, as Marcel was looking at her, bewildered : 
“ Dante is right,” she muttered ; “ love is a 
cursed contagion ! ” 

Then she added, in a still lower voice : “Ah ! 
mio caro ! you must not read the last line ! ” 

But he picked up the book, and knew enough 
Italian to translate the line himself ; it ran thus : 


Love has led us both to the same death. 



Ill 


THE COMPACT 


9 





■ ' 





✓ 




* 4 



>* s; 







O N that day, September the third, the 
Notary of Sasseville came up to the cha- 
teau and cast a shadow over the serenity of the 
infatuated one's bliss. 

It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, 
when the solemn little man, after going through 
the castle in search of the couple, strolled 
through the park, and, at the end of a long, 
straight path, saw Marcel and Madame di Car- 
pegna walking slowly arm in arm, as is the 
lovers’ wont. He hurried to catch up with 
them. When Marcel heard him coming, he 
turned around and could not repress a gesture 
of ill humor. 

“Ah ! is that you, my dear sir ? ” he exclaimed. 
“ What happy thought turned your steps this 
way?” 

“ Excuse my intruding, Monsieur le Vi- 
comte,” replied the solemn country lawyer, Va- 
rincourt by name. “ I have here an important 
communication which concerns you ; a letter to 
read to you, from the Councilor of State himself.” 

“ From my father ? ” cried Marcel, astonished. 
“ Let us sit down, then. I listen to you.” 

<130 


132 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

Not far from them was a rustic bench, where 
the three took seats. Oscar Varincourt spread 
on his lap a portfolio full of papers, straightened 
up his face, and said : 

44 Have you not, my dear sir, lately written 
to Monsieur le Comte Besnard?” 

44 I have done so, to make him acquainted 
with my firm resolution to marry the Princess 
di Carpegna. ” 

“ That was wasted ink, Marcel/’ interrupted 
the young woman. 

44 The Councilor of State has been pleased to 
honor me with a letter,” said the Notary , 44 and 
I bring you his answer to your communica- 
tion.” 

44 His answer? Sent to you, and not to 
me?” 

44 I regret it, Monsieur le Vicomte, but here 
it is,” and M. Varincourt handed him a paper, 
already numbered, stamped, classified, every- 
thing according to law, for the little 'man was 
well acquainted with the book entitled 44 The 
Perfect Notary.” 

Very much agitated, Marcel took the paper 
and began reading aloud, while Rosina, her 
head leaning on her lover’s shoulder, listened, 
smiling, with her eyes half closed, forgetting 
the presence of a stranger, of an official per- 
sonage, grown gray in public service. 


THE COMPACT 


133 


This letter, hard and curt, read thus: 

Sir : One of your clients, M. Marcel Besnard, has just 
notified me of his intention to marry. I have, many a 
time, let that young man know how much his recent be- 
havior grieved and astonished me ; but, as neither re- 
quests nor reprimands have put a stop to such a painful 
scandal, I have had to break off all intercourse with my 
son. Be kind enough, therefore, to act as my interpreter ; 
and to take him my answer; this answer, here it is : 

Formerly, a man of honor would have had scruples to 
marry the widow of a man who insulted his family, a 
man he has punished and killed in a duel. The insult, as 
well as the bloodshed, would have placed an abyss be- 
tween his love and his honor. New times, new morals 
it seems. As for me, I stand by the old rules. If M. 
Marcel's conscience makes itself heard no longer, it be- 
longs to his father to speak to him firmly and plainly. 

Being unwilling to become the accomplice of such a 
disreputable act, I refuse — once for all — to give my con- 
sent. Your client is free to do without it; but, then, I 
require the formal legal notices ; I demand them, I must 
have them. 

Besides, you can tell my son that he shall not have 
long to wait; I feel very old, and he knows I am very ill. 

Please, sir, to accept my regards. 

Count Besnard. 

“Via vecchietto! ” sighed the young woman, 
preserving her careless attitude. 

As to Marcel, he kept silent, and nervously 
fidgeted with his cane on the grass of the lawn. 

“ What do you decide doing? ” continued M. 
Varincourt. “ This is certainly explicit enough ; 
a refusal from your father, and he calls for the 
formal notices spoken of in section 152 of the 


134 THE court OF NAPOLEON III 


Code Napoleon. Will you risk to have those 
notices sent him? I know, in Paris, a very 
obliging colleague ; I am going to write to him. 
Besides Madame la Princesse, born d’ A’Prata, 
must kindly place me in relation with her 
lawyer in Italy. I shall need certain papers 
which ” 

“ Oh ! dear me, what fuss,” interrupted Ro- 
sine; “ why not also Juliette’s poison to unite 
me to my Romeo ? Well, now, if I may say 
my say, it shall be — no. I will have none of 
this. I prefer waiting.” 

She had pronounced the word “ waiting ” 
with such a vibrating tone of hatred that the 
son of Count Besnard turned quite pale. 

“ I will think over the matter,” he finally 
said, “ and let you know before long. Come 
back, one of these days, my dear sir.” 

The careful Varincourt picked up the cata- 
logued paper, placed it back in his portfolio, 
and tucked the portfolio under his arm ; then 
rose, bowed twice and soon his silhouette disap- 
peared at a turning of the walk. 

The lovers were alone again. 

“ What folly, Marcel ! ” impetuously cried 
Madame di Carpegna. “ What is the use of this 
marriage ? ” 

“ It must take place, my Rosina! Our posi- 
tion is getting more awkward every day.” 

“ Oh ! what is the sense of those tardy 


THE COMPACT I 35 

scruples ? Would you love me more once 
married ?” 

“ Certainly not ; but I would have you here, 
and mine forever ! ” 

She looked at him fixedly, and the smile 
died on her lips : 

“ Forever? Well! I know of a more indis- 
soluble tie than marriage — it's death. When a 
loved one deceives you, kill him or her ; then 
kill yourself/’ 

A prolonged silence followed and added its 
stress to this passionate declaration. 

“ Be it so,” said Marcel Besnard. “ I agree to 
it. Remember the day and hour ; I shall never 
forget them.” 








J 





i 


s 




» 







IV 

THE WILD ROSE 


































T HE day was coming to a close — a Septem- 
ber day, still warm and bright ; but already, 
the vapors of autumnal evenings were rising 
from the ground, hiding the azure of the sky. 
The park was being invaded by a sleepy peace 
and invited one to thoughtfulness. Not a 
movement among the branches ; no rustling 
among the leaves. The sun was going down, 
lengthening the shadows of the big trees ; and, 
in its long rays, shivering insects, old after a 
summer’s existence, were having their last sport. 
Under the thickets, it was almost dark and, 
on the grass, the dewdrops resembled pearls. 
Slowly Marcel and his inamorata were walking 
lovingly, silent in the midst of silence, over the 
moss and among the tall ferns. 

When they reached the very top of the 
plateau, just before the declivity, they stopped. 
In front of them was spread the valley of the 
Dalles, with all the peculiar melancholy of that 
landscape. 

At that time it was nothing but a wild 
ravine, a solitude between two cliffs covered 
with trees, reeds and heather. Beyond, one 

(139) 


140 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

could see the ocean shining under the sun ; 
first, there was the foam of its waves covering 
the shore ; then a line of reefs dotting with 
black the dark-green of its waves ; finally, an 
immensity of blue sky. 

Gently the young woman drew herself from 
her lover. 

“ Oh ! what a beautiful autumn evening ! ” 
she cried; “ and what an admirable country is 
your France ! ” 

“Why ‘your France,’ my Rosina?” asked 
her companion. “ Is it not henceforth yours 
also, this country of mine?” 

She shook her head : 

“ I know, I know ; ‘ Thy God will be my 
God, your people my people, your country 
my country ; ’ but I will remain myself. Oh ! ” 
she went on, “ what an admirable country is 
your France ! and how hateful, too ! Formerly 
‘ the lady among nations ; ’ a despicable woman 
to-day ! ” 

“A line from Dante ! ” replied Marcel un- 
touched by the bitter taunt ; “ but Dante was 
speaking of your Italy.” 

“ My Italy ? She, too, is a vile creature, a 
galley slave ! But Italy, at least, may yet 
curse — and weep ! ” 

“ Rosina,” interrupted the young man, try- 
ing to put a stop to this painful subject, 
“ rather than insult what is strong and noble, 


THE WILD ROSE 


141 

tell me of yourself, of your relatives, of your 
Romagna, you love so dearly. Recite to me 
once more the song of your favorite poet, the 
verses of Leopardi, Italia .” 

“ No,” she answered, excitedly; “ not that 
one — another.” 

She took a few steps away from him to assume 
the desired attitude ; then turned around, with a 
theatrical gesture. 

Standing at the top of the hillock, her 
graceful form outlined against the ashy-grey of 
the twilight, her hair loosened, her whole pose 
tragic to a degree, la Savelli began. And he, 
the son of Count Besnard, fascinated, lost in the 
contemplation of this being who deprived 
him of his reason as well as of his honor, 
listened to her harmonious and passionate 
voice. 

She recited one of the most famous among 
Young Italy’s poems of hate, where France, at 
first praised to the skies, ends by being dragged 
into the mire. 

“ What an abominable insult, and what 
furious hatred ! ” cried Marcel, deeply offended. 
“ Who wrote those odious verses ? ” 

Rosina Savelli took another melodramatic 
attitude. “ My father ! ” she said. 

“ That father of whom you always avoid 
speaking to me, my friend? Well, his Italian 
jealousy has calumniated in vain ; what is im- 


142 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

mortal cannot die ! Why did not your father 
love France ? ” 

“ He? He loved her ardently ; and he died 
for her sake ” 

“ Died for her sake ? the Count of d’ A’Prata, 
your father ? What do you mean, my 
Rosina? ” 

“Nothing!” muttered the young woman, 
turning pale. 

Again they started on their silent walk ; but 
their silence was no longer caused by inexpres- 
sible happiness ; a strange reserve painfully 
closed their mouths. 

At the bottom of the hill, they had to stop ; 
the wall which enclosed the park of Sasseville 
was before them. On the mossy, crumbling 
stones, a few wild rose bushes climbed, and Sep- 
tember had already turned their leaves to rust. 
Still, here and there could be seen a faded 
blossom, as a last smile of summer. The young 
woman rushed towards one of the bushes, 
gathered two bunches of these little flowers, 
and said : 

“ Pardon me, dear Marcel, for having grieved 
you just now. Pardon me ! And now listen 
to me — understand me. I know not what des- 
tiny, to-morrow, perhaps, has in store for us. I, 
who have just now wounded in you the noblest 
of prides — the pride of one’s country — I love 
you ! I love you ! Whatever happens, I shall 


THE WILD ROSE 


143 


always love you. But you, my friend, should 
trials come, would you preserve whole the dear 
treasure of your heart ? Take this rose ; it is 
my name-sake ; and, like it, my mind is wild. In 
the hour of temptation, if you ever experience 
doubt and its pains, look at it ; and, when you 
think you love me no more, it will tell you to 
love me still.” 

Smiling, Rosina Savelli slipped one of the 
bunches in her dress, raised the other to her 
mouth, breathed its humid odor, then handed 
it to her lover, who pressed her passionately in 
his arms. 

Suddenly Madame di Carpegna uttered a 
slight cry, and drew herself away, deeply em- 
barrassed. A servant of the castle was coming 
down the hill towards them. 

“ It is a caller, sir,” said the man, when he 
came nearer ; “ a foreigner who asks to see the 
Princess.” 

At the same time he handed a card, which 
Rosina hastened to take from him. She read 
it, and changing color, remained for a moment 
visibly hesitating. 

“All right,” she said at last, “ I follow 
you.” 

“ Who comes to disturb us ? ” asked Marcel. 
“ Let me see this card.” 

But Rosina had already torn, it in small 
pieces. 


144 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

“A countryman of mine,” she answered, “ a 
kinsman. I have to receive him.” 

“ Of course you have. I’ll go with you.” 

“ No, no; please don’t ! Remain behind, I pray 
you ! It is Traventi ! You know, Alessandro 
Traventi, one of the seconds of the Prince in the 
duel at Vaucresson. I don’t suppose you care 
to see the man again. I will hurry him off.” 
And without waiting for an answer, she rushed 
towards the castle, crying : 

“ Be patient for half an hour, my beloved, 
and go and wait for me on the shore.” 

Madame di Carpegna ran up the steep hill. 
When at the top, she turned around, and ad- 
dressed her lover a caressing gesture. Soon 
her form was lost among the trees of the park. 

Marcel watched her disappearing form ; he 
then opened a gate, and went out in the fields 
towards the rendezvous . 

It was getting dark, and the valley was al- 
ready wrapped in obscurity. On the horizon, 
the sun was plunging into the sea, coloring 
brilliantly the clouds suspended over it. 

The lover lay down on the shore to enjoy at his 
ease the end of a beautiful day. An inexpress- 
ible joy filled his soul, permeating his whole 
being with a sensation of perfect happiness. 


# 


V 

SIMPLE DIALOGUE 


10 

















































































































































• 
















































































W HEN Rosina reached the depths of the 
wood and felt hidden in the obscurity, 
she slackened her pace. She walked with diffi- 
culty, perspiration running down her face ; she 
stopped, very much agitated. 

Nothing could upset her more than the 
arrival of this Traventi. Traventi! He who 
in London called himself Marino, the compan- 
ion of her old husband, the former familiar and 
trusted friend of the dead ! What did that 
man call upon her for? “II tempo stringe — I 
am in a hurry,” said the card which had been so 
quickly torn to minute fragments. What mean- 
ing could she give to this enigma? Alas ! only 
the worst one. 

She looked back again. In the distance, she 
saw Marcel walking towards the shore. For- 
tunately, he had not followed her. How happy 
he looked, the beloved one, walking proudly, 
feeling light under the weight of his happiness! 
Beloved, oh ! yes ; too much so ! And involun- 
tarily she started to join him. 

“ But no ; no weakness, Rosina ! ” Slowly 
then, she wended her way to the castle. Now 

(H7) 


148 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


the high brick walls could be seen. Madame di 
Carpegna walked faster. She might be seen 
through the opened windows. Well, she was 
no longer afraid! Afraid? of what, after all? 
She was a widow ; she was free ; she was loved ; 
she loved ! In the vestibule, the Princess ques- 
tioned the servant : 

“ Has the person who sent for me been here 
for some time ? ” 

“ For half an hour, madame. This gentle- 
man seems to be in a great hurry ; there is a 
carriage waiting for him at the entrance of the 
park.” 

Ah ! a carriage was waiting for the man ! 
The call would be of short duration, then, and 
she would know how to make it shorter still .! 
Nevertheless, Madame di Carpegna stopped 
before the door, a hand extended towards the 
knob, undecided. But the valet was looking 
at her ; she saw the look, she entered. 

In the parlor was sitting a man of unpre- 
possessing appearance, poorly dressed, and 
suspicious looking. He rose quickly, and 
bowed very obsequiously. “ My humble re- 
gards to the princess,” said he. 

At the first glance Mme. di Carpegna had 
recognized the face with the long beard and 
uncombed head. Yes, it was the man she had 
seen in London — the shabby, sinister-looking 
music teacher, an ill-looking monkey. 


SIMPLE DIALOGUE 


149 


He had spoken in Italian, and intentionally 
she answered him in French. She hoped, this 
way, to shorten the visit. 

“ Good morning, Monsieur Marino ; I am 
glad to see you again/ ’ 

The man bowed anew, and he, too, spoke 
French, a lisping French, dragging and lengthy 
like the macaroni from over the Alps. 

“Your illustrissime highness has not for- 
gotten, then, the obscure Marino ? You change 
my humility into pride! ” 

The illustrissime highness could not repress 
an expression of disgust ; the man was so con- 
temptible, so abjectly servile ! however, she 
tried to be pleasant. 

“ I had expected to have the pleasure of a 
call from you before, my dear sir.” 

Marino tried a smile which only showed his 
gorilla teeth so white in the midst of his black 
and hairy face. 

“ This is an unexpected call, but necessary. 
I come to fetch the most beautiful of prin- 
cesses.” 

“ To fetch me ? ” 

“ I have said, the most beautiful of princesses.” 

Taken by surprise, the young woman had 
drawn herself back ; the man advanced towards 
her quickly. 

“A carriage is waiting for us,” he continued. 
“ Oh, a very modest equipage ; unworthy of a 


150 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

great lady, like you ! But I found nothing bet- 
ter in Fecamp. It is a primitive part of the 
country, this Norman district — their carriages 
are uncivilized.” 

Madame di Carpegna felt herself fainting, 
but she made a tremendous effort to appear 
indifferent. 

“ I am not good at guessing riddles, sir ; 
please explain yourself ! 

“A riddle? This is no riddle, Ecco ! Those 
in Geneva, as well as our friends in London, 
told each other. The first act of the comedy 
of love is ended. Our diva, you, Princess, has 
acted her part finely. Oh, yes ! Madame you 
have been admirable, astonishing, sublime ! It’s 
all a prologue, though. We must now begin the 
next act — the curtain is going to rise on an- 
other scene ; let us hurry the end. Formidable 
events are being prepared ; formidable, your 
highness ! ” 

The emphatic talker paused, and straighten- 
ing up his backbone, which had been all this 
time pitifully bent : 

“ So, they have sent me, lucky fellow, to 
come and take you away ! I, Marino, the 
humble Marino, am raised to the position of 
your cavalier e servant e ! What an undeserved 
honor! Now let us be off quickly.” 

He went for his hat, which he placed on a 
piece of furniture, and walked towards the door. 


SIMPLE DIALOGUE I 5 I 

Without making a movement to follow him, 
Rosina was looking at him, very pale. 

“ I try, in vain, to understand your meaning, 
sir!” she finally managed to say, more and 
more troubled. 

The Italian came back, and still smiling, still 
gentle : 

“ She does not understand ! She ? Such a won- 
derful intelligence ! Yes, yes ; her highness 
understands! She even begins to remember ! 
I see by the color on her face that with con- 
sciousness memory is coming back ! ” 

He leaned towards the scared woman, and 
in a low voice thrilling with mystery : 

“ Remember ! ” he said, “ as the French 
song has it. Yes; remember, my noble lady, 
remember the Arditti restaurant — the public 
house for the rich, and Prince di Carpegna — a 
munificent prince — and the little Bella, the 
little one with the red skirt and the wild roses, 
exactly like the one I see now on your dress, 
Princess. Such a darling when she sang, ‘ Li- 
biamo ne lieti calici! A pretty voice, but 
needing cultivation. Ah ! what fire in her 
eyes, what passion in her speech ! Remem- 
ber this also, your Highness : * 1 am twenty- 

two years old, and I am beautiful. Will you 
avenge my father, you ? Say, will you ? And 
I am yours body and soul ! 9 Well, we are 
going to avenge this beloved father, and thus 


152 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


the daughter belongs to us : body and soul — 
she is ours! ” 

Each of those words repeated by that man 
wounded to the quick the pride of the former 
street singer. Beside herself with impotent 
rage, she bent her head before the sarcasm of 
this terrible man. Still she tried to revolt, and 
gathering the remnants of her audacity, she 
laughed in his face : 

“ Those are old stories, my dear fellow ! 
Bella exists no longer, and the Princess di Car- 
pegna is free! Formerly, a slave of her 
husband, perhaps ; henceforth liberated. Her 
husband is dead .” 

“Alas ! yes!” whined the Italian. “ He al- 
lowed himself to be shot. Dead, the noble 
Prince, from the consequence of his wound — 
dead in Ravenna, in my arms, calling for his 
wife in those supreme moments. And the 
wife was away in Paris, devoting herself to her 
filial duties ; and, notwithstanding her ardent 
desire, unable to attend the sacred funeral. 
Yes, he is dead, il generoso vecchione. Quite 
dead. ‘As dead as a door nail,’ as the English 
say in a very inelegant metaphor. But his 
spirit is immortal, Madame ; like the shadow of 
Ninus in the opera of the divine Rossini, it is 
hovering here now, it is looking at us, it hears 
us, judges us, speaks to us, and it is telling you, 
Princess : ‘ Take care ! ’ ” 


SIMPLE DIALOGUE 


153 


“Ah ! threats ! I know you all as bandits, 
without soul or scruples, and capable enough 
of killing me. I 

“ Kill her? Well, more extraordinary things 
than that have been known to happen. But 
no; calm yourself, Madame. Whatever Rosina 
may do, we will always spare the daughter of 
Savelli.” 

The daughter of Savelli ! With what a 
scornful tone this Marino had uttered these 
words. And the loving daughter, forgetful 
of her father, lowered her head under the in- 
sult. Her bravado forsook her; blushing with 
anger and shame, she fell heavily on a chair 
without uttering a word. 

Again fear took possession of her, and des- 
perate thoughts filled her mind. She felt she 
was lost — totally lost. The abject creature, 
who had been insulting her for the last quarter 
of an hour, would not certainly go away with- 
out carrying away with him his victim. A few 
moments more and Marcel would be coming : 
the other would tell him everything, the whole 
ignominious story. How furious and disgusted 
this man of honor would be, to have been 
trifled with in this shameless way ! No, Rosina, 
your smile then would be powerless to calm 
his just wrath ; you could find nothing to say 
in defense of yourself. With one awful ges- 
ture, your lover would drive you out of his 


154 THE court OF NAPOLEON III 

house. Let him, at least, be ignorant of the 
infamous part you have acted. Absent, you 
will carry with you his regrets — his persistent 
illusions shall make him long for you — 

This is what she was saying to herself ; and 
notwithstanding it all she stood there dumb 
and trembling before the vision of her whole 
adored future crumbling down to ashes. 

Through the open windows, the purple of the 
setting sun seemed to bid her a last good-bye ; 
the sea breeze caressed her gently with its soft 
breath, and the church bells of Sasseville peal- 
ing for the evening prayer, filled her with 
ineffable melancholy. What ! so much calm 
happiness in this quiet corner of the earth, 
blessed with such love, and all this be for- 
saken forever! 

In the meanwhile Marino had stretched him- 
self in an armchair, and carelessly smoked a 
cigarette : 

“ Disgraziati noi ! ” he said, as if speaking to 
himself. “ With women, all the calculations of 
human wisdom are indeed superfluous ! Here 
is one whose father was a hero and fell a mar- 
tyr. The blood of Scipione Savelli cries for 
vengeance ; but his daughter is deaf ; she pre- 
fers cooing sweetly in this nest of verdure, and 
with whom, of all sons of men? — with the son 
of her father’s assassin ! ” 

With one bound, Rosina was near him : 


SIMPLE DIALOGUE 


*55 


“Who placed me in such a position, you cow- 
ard, you rascal, if not you yourself? Who told 
me, 4 make him love you,’ if not your Carpegna, 
my vile husband ? ” 

“ Yes, ‘ make him love you ’ were his orders ; 
but he did not tell you Move him.’ You did 
not well understand his instructions ! ” 

“ His instructions ? Ruffians! Because you 
met me one day in need of bread, did you sup- 
pose I had no heart? I tell you, this is in- 
famous ! ‘ Make him love you, you beggar ; 

obey us, for we have bought you ! * And I, 
unfortunate one, I fell in love with him ! Yes, 
unfortunate ! ” 

“ In short, Rodrigue and Chimene ! the trag- 
edy of Le Cid repeating itself,” chuckled the 
ex-Professor. “ This is a play, not real life ! ” 

“You were threatening me a minute ago,” 
continued Rosina ; “ kill me, then, as you have 
killed others! Yes, kill me, for I have such a 
horror of myself that I cannot stand life any 
longer. What do they want of me, those 
people, with their siiblime projects? The 
wretches ! Oh ! yes, indeed, it is your work, 
this shameful love which tortures me! You 
have commanded me to trifle with love, and 
love has trifled with me ! It has slowly and 
implacably devoured me. And, now, I love ! 
do you hear! do you understand? I love, I 
love ! ” 


156 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

“ Basta ! Why so frantic ? ” 

“ Why ? Ah ! yes, why ? Does one ever 
know the reason of such things ? A fatality, 
a charm, an ill-wind ; my destiny, no doubt. 
Why ? Indeed, they make me laugh with their 
why ! Because love is an unavoidable conta- 
gion ; because, being degraded on account of 
love, I would be still more abject if I did not 
love, because my husband had reviled me, 
while my lover has raised me to his heart — be- 
cause — because I love, that’s all.” 

She fell back in her chair, worn out with 
excitement, hiding her face within her hands. 
Suddenly, she shuddered. 

Marino had risen and was looking at one of 
the pictures on the wall. It was a portrait of 
Count Brutus Besnard. The former judge was 
represented in his court costume — the scarlet 
gown bordered with ermine ; he was standing 
in the attitude of a public prosecutor. The 
Mazzinian looked for some time at those 
detested features ; then in an ironical, imperti- 
nent tone he said : 

“And has Monsieur Brutus, the ‘ White 
Butcher/ a part of your love ? ” 

The young woman raised her head, and with 
her wild eyes, looked the image of insanity ; 
but with a quick movement Marino rushed 
towards her, and took hold of her. Roughly, 
he obliged her to rise, and, twisting her wrists, 



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SIMPLE DIALOGUE 


157 


dragged her in front of the portrait. She 
fought hard, but he did not let go his hold. 

“ Look! ” he said, “ look, I say, unworthy 
daughter ! He was dressed like this, that man, 
when they dragged to his chamber your father, 
still bleeding from his wounds ! He had this 
very attitude when he demanded your father’s 
death, when death already had refused to take 
him ! He was smiling that same lofty smile, when 
it was granted him that your father should be 
shot, and this time the bullets ended the mar- 
tyr’s tortures ! Look ! look ! I tell you, you 
affectionate creature ! Or, rather, here ! here ! 
caress those precious hands, kiss those long 
white fingers, and that red gown, too, still wet, 
perhaps, with the splashings of Savelli’s blood ! 
You parricide! you she-wolf ! ” 

And all this time he held within his claws 
the neck of the bewildered woman, and forced 
her to place her lips on the canvas. 

She fought furiously, tearing with her nails 
the pitiless torturer who was using such abom- 
inable violence upon her. The low-born Italian 
woman showed her nature. 

“ Villain! Villain! Yes, you speak the 
truth, this love is ignominious ! I am a vile 
creature, a parricide ! Wretches ! do what you 
please with me, since I sold myself, since you 
have bought me, you fiends ! since I belong to 
you, entirely, irredeemably — you, take me 


158 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

away, take me away ; but be quick. Oh, quick ! 
before he comes back — he ! for if I see him 
again, I would no longer go — I could no longer 
go. I would fall dead at his feet ! ” 

The grimy fingers released their grasp, and 
Marino let his victim go. 

“ Va bene! ” he said, “ at last I recognize my 
Princess ! Now, on the way ! they are waiting 
for us in Paris ; your Highness will soon know 
what a glorious mission is in store for her.” 

He picked up the lace mantilla Madame di 
Carpegna had dropped, and when he came 
back to her he found the poor woman in tears : 

“ Cry not, dear signora ; you break my 
heart ! do not cry so ! You will see him again, 
your giovinotto, and that before long, I assure 
you.” 

“ Never! Never!” sobbed Rosina. 

“ Yes ! Yes ! You shall see him again, this 
beloved gallant ; I assure you, you shall.” 

She drew back, disgusted, and staring at the 
bold fellow with unutterable contempt. 

“ Never! Do you hear! To serve your 
infamous purposes, pray look for some one 
else ; but do not touch my lover ! Oh ! no, not 
him ! I will’ not see him again, never, never! ” 

“ Pshaw!” the man said smiling; “ lovers’ and 
drunkards’ promises avail nothing. Besides, 
here is your ticket of leave in due form.” 

He drew out of his pocket a letter prepared 


SIMPLE DIALOGUE 1 59 

in advance, and laid it, well in sight, on the 
parlor table. 

“ Presto e vivace ! ” cried he ; “ trains do not 
wait ; honor still less ! ” 

He offered his arm to the desolate woman, 
who repulsed him scornfully. 

Pale, as if in agony, she was going to pass the 
threshold of the room, when her eyes fell upon 
the bunch of flowers fastened on her dress. 
With a desperate gesture she tore it off, carried 
it to her lips, kissed it fondly, then ran back to 
place it near the letter in token of an eternal 
good-bye. 

Marino had watched every one of her move- 
ments : 

“ Caspisco! ” he said, feigning emotion, 
“ wild rose, sign of love ; the emblem of our 
friend here ; the dear and sweet remembrance 
whose perfumes are breathed by the light of 
the stars ! Happy young man ! ” 

Without answering a word, with her eyes dry 
now, and appearing to be shaking away from 
her the dust of her past love, Rosina Savelli 
rushed out. A few minutes more and the 
carriage was taking her towards the unknown. 

When, half an hour later, Marcel came in, 
the parlor was dark and deserted. They 
brought in the lights ; and, on the table, he 
noticed a closed letter addressed to him. Be- 


l6o THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

side himself with sudden anxiety, he tore the 
envelope and uttered a cry of surprise. 

There were only two lines : 

“ She thought she loved you : she loved you 
not. Forget her then ; for one may forget.” 

No signature. 

Marcel Besnard read again and again this 
rough good-bye ; he did not understand, he did 
not wish to understand. Finally he called a 
servant : 

“ Where is the Princess? ” 

“ Her Ladyship has just departed/’ 

“Alone ? ” 

“ No, sir, with the gentleman who had been 
waiting for her.” 

“ Did she say where she was going ? ’ 

None of the servants could tell. 

“ No matter! tell them to bring the carriage 
round as quick as possible ! I shall overtake her !” 

When alone, Marcel picked up again the 
anonymous note. Then his eyes fell upon the 
bunch of wild roses, which seemed now as 
withered as his despised love itself. The for- 
lorn man gave way to an angry laugh ; he took 
the poor little flowers and crushed them be- 
tween his fingers, threw the pieces on the floor 
and trampled upon them. 

“ There ! there ! ” he cried, mad with rage ; 
“ so will I do with your remembrance ! Ah ! 
how happy I am to be free — at last ! ” 


SIMPLE DIALOGUE l6l 

But, just then, his eyesight failed him, his 
knees gave away, and he fell heavily to the 
floor, in a swoon. 







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BECAUSE HE IS MY SON 























































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T HE winter had come, covering Paris with 
a mantle of fog and melancholy. 

On that night it was raining. 

In the family mansion of the Avenue de 
Breteuil, Marie-Anne was yet sitting close to 
her father, although it was already late in the 
evening. 

How old Count Besnard looked ! A single 
year had bent his form, once so straight and 
so proud ; his white hair had become thinner ; 
his face showed purple spots, and, round the 
corners of his mouth coursed two deep wrinkles ; 
the signs of decrepitude. His disease had 
become chronic ; the swoons more frequent, 
and the doctor no longer hid his fears. 

“ Be sure,” he would say, “ to spare him any 
violent emotion ; I fear a catastrophe.” 

The little deformed daughter had settled 
down as his nurse, vigilantly watching the 
patient, lavishing her filial attentions. 

At that moment, the old man was stretched 
upon a reclining chair, his eyes closed and his 
hands joined together. He seemed to slumber ; 
but judging from his deathly pallor and his per- 

(i 6s) 


l66 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


fectly motionless form, one might have thought 
it the sleep of death. She was also very much 
changed, the poor Marie-Anne ; her thin face 
had grown still more so, two deep furrows in 
her white cheeks bore witness to the long 
sleepless nights, as well as to the tearful days. 
Her attire had no longer any sign of her former 
coquetry ; no ribbon in her hair, no flowers on 
her bosom ; her black woolen dress seemed to 
betoken the recent loss of some loved one. 
Sitting at the piano, the young girl was play- 
ing the weird modulations and the heart-rend- 
ing chords of Chopin. She had chosen those 
of his works which her father preferred, noc- 
turnes or berceuses ; and in the dim light of 
the chamber resounded now the groans uttered 
by the divine artist, now his cries of desperate 
joy, vibrating like a blasphemy. Oh ! Chopin ! 
poet of grief, whose genius was entirely made 
of tears, patriot crying over his country, lover 
despising his love — what suffering soul could 
ever listen, without a shudder, to the pathetic 
accents which you uttered over your dead 
heart? 

Two gentle taps on the door startled the per- 
former. She stopped short. The door opened 
a little, and the affrighted face of Philomene 
appeared. 

“ Mademoiselle, ” she whispered. 

“ What do you wish ? ” 


BECAUSE HE IS MY SON 


167 


“ Mademoiselle ! A caller.’' 

“At this hour ? ” 

Marie-Anne began to tremble; a sudden 
emotion took away her speech. 

“A caller,” repeated the servant; “you must 
come down.” 

Count Besnard opened his eyes : 

“ Go, my child ; and come back to tell me 
what is all this mystery.” 

So Marie-Anne went down, and the patient 
fell back into his reverie just interrupted. How- 
ever, he was listening, and he heard. 

There was an unusual commotion in the 
house ; he heard voices — the voice of his 
daughter — another, too ! There were steps on 
the stairs, steps in the hall ; timidly the door 
was pushed open. Marcel stood in front of 
him. 

Count Besnard did not move : 

“Is that you, sir?” he asked, with undis- 
turbed indifference. “ So you are back, are 
you?” 

Humbly, and keeping at a distance, the young 
man bent his knee : 

“Father, grant me your pardon! I have 
suffered so much ! ” 

No response; he went on: 

“ Grant me your pardon, sir ; I know I have 
shamefully offended you ; I know I have tried 
to force you to give your consent to an un- 


1 68 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

worthy marriage ; for me to give your name to 
a degraded creature ; to open to her your house, 
your family ! But I have cruelly suffered, sir; 
I have expiated ! Pardon me ! ” 

“ Father ! Oh, father ! ” murmured as an echo 
Marie-Anne’s suppliant voice. 

Count Besnard weakly raised his head : 

“And how long was it since you left your 
Castle of Sasseville?” 

Marcel thought a minute ; then in words 
interrupted by moments of silence, he said : 

“ I know — I understand — I ought to have 
rushed here and thrown myself at your feet 
long before this, but I dared not. No; lam 
lying ! I was not willing. My folly had not 
left me entirely. She — that woman — had fled 
from me ; I have attempted to rejoin her. She 
had run away ; I pursued her. I crossed the 
whole of France. I went all over Italy; I 
searched every city. In vain ! I discovered noth- 
ing ! And now my love is dead ; my insanity is 
cured ! Father, grant me your pardon ; I have 
suffered so much ! ” 

With a childish impulse, indescribably pa- 
thetic, the little deformed creature had also 
fallen on her knees. 

“ Father! Oh, father ! ” she said, unable to 
find any other word of supplication. 

“ If I dare to present myself before you,” 
continued Marcel, “ it is because I have to bid 


BECAUSE HE IS MY SON 


169 


you good-bye. I cannot remain in Paris, with 
your wrath on me ! My life is shattered ; I 
must regenerate my soul ! I am going away, 
I care . not where ; but let it be far away ! I 
have applied for a consulate in some far-off 
country, where I shall have duties to perform, 
so as to regain my self-respect. Do I dare ask 
you to indorse my request?’’ 

“ I will do so, sir. I shall speak to the min- 
ister.” 

Marcel got slowly up, and followed by Marie- 
Anne, went out of the room hesitatingly. 

Still stretched in his armchair, Brutus Bes- 
nard was listening to his retreating steps. They 
were slow — very slow ; they were going down the 
stairs, uncertain. They did not stop on the first 
landing. They already resounded on the tiles 
of the vestibule going towards the street door — 
towards a separation, perhaps forever. 

Suddenly the old man stood up, ran to the 
door of his chamber, opened it, and cried out, 
passionately : 

'‘Marcel ! ” 

The steps stopped. 

“ Marcel ! Marcel ! ” 

The son was hurrying to the call. The 
father’s arms were outstretched, he ran into 
them overjoyed ; their silent embrace lasted a 
long time. 













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- VII 

PHANTOM OF THE NIGHT 





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B ECAUSE this one, my son, was dead, and 
is born- again, he was lost and is found 

again.” 

Now in the room of the found-again child 
a bright fire was burning in the fireplace, 
and the lamp spread its soft light tempered by 
the shade. Marcel kissed Marie-Anne on the 
forehead, and said, gently : 

“ Go, darling ; I feel very tired ; I want to 
try and sleep.” 

At last he was alone ! 

What a delight to be free — to rest the body 
and compose the mind. How pleasant to look 
at his tastefully decorated bachelor quarters. 
Everything was in its place and in perfect 
order — even the papers on the writing desk, 
which had been left undisturbed — dear little 
sister! He got up and slowly went the round 
of the room. Everywhere familiar objects 
seemed to welcome him. First, a brilliant 
panoply arranged by himself with artistic care ; 
there were breastplates, shields, helmets, 
throatpieces engraved in the “ Renaissance ” 
style ; other arms more modern : muskets, 

(173) 


174 THE court OF NAPOLEON III 

swords, pistols. Ah! here were those, which 
at Vaucresson. . . . Violently he snatched 

them off and threw them in the bottom of a cup- 
board. Now he looked at the water colors 
which adorned the walls, the simple and at 
times talented, work of his gentle sister, Marie- 
Anne ; they were remembrances of those 
country excursions they had made together. 
Here was Auray and the lonely heather of the 
“ Champs-des-Martyrs ; ” Audierne with its 
blue bay, its red granite, its dark evergreens, 
and its Breton girls whose gaiety is so melan- 
choly. 

Oh ! what a happy time, Marcel, when you 
could listen to their ditties, and have no other 
thought but that they were beautiful ! Here 
was a familiar Normandy landscape : the park of 
Sasseville, a view of the valley of the Dalles, 
the avenue of high trees, that very place 
where ... he closed his eyes and turned 
the picture towards the wall. Why did all those 
hated remembrances seem to pursue him, when 
he was trying to flee from them ? No, it would 
be better to get absorbed in a book, and Mar- 
cel walked towards his library. There they 
were, all his favorite poets, the gentle comfort- 
ers for wounded hearts : here was the master 
of them all, Chateaubriand, the first explorer of 
the abysses of the human heart, the incompar- 
able artist who has done so much for French 


PHANTOM OF THE NIGHT 


175 


literature. There were others, too : those shin- 
ing minds, Victor Hugo and de Vigny ; Musset, 
whose accents but increase one’s sufferings ; 
Lamartine, who knows how to soothe them ; 
and there were also more recent reputations : 
Banville, who, at times, knows how to incrust 
a tear like a well-set precious stone, and 
this Leconte de Lisle, the superb, the rival of 
the greatest. Towards those Marcel stretched 
out his hand, and it met a foreigner’s work, 
an Italian’s ; the stern Florentine himself. 
Dante’s book flew open as of its own accord : 

Love quickly attracted by noble hearts, 

Love, who never allows the loved one not to love, 

Love who leads to the same death. 

Marcel closed the book. 

Yes, yes, he knew them too well, those fatal 
lines ! How many times had he read them — 
read them with “ her ! ” her, that woman ! and 
he began to walk the floor restlessly. 

That woman ! certainly not, he was not 
thinking of her ! An effaced image — a vanish- 
ing phantom — ashes entirely cold ! “ She ! ” 

and a derisive laugh broke the silence of the 
room. 

He was now overcome by fatigue ; and hav- 
ing gone to bed, he put out the light. At last 
he was going to indulge in sleep. Heavily 
went his head on his pillow : he was asleep, but 
he awoke almost at once, sat up in bed and 


176 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

looked around ; a sharp pain went through 
him, it was “ that woman ! ” — the effaced image, 
the vanishing phantom — the ashes entirely 
cold ! 

“ She!” still “She!” 

It had grown very dark, and outside the cold 
December wind was blowing. Marcel laughed 
again, as persistently thought of her who 
haunted him in the hours of night as well as 
under the sun’s radiance. . 

“You!” he finally cried out. “I will find 
you again ; and then, then — didn’t you tell me 
yourself : * When your beloved deceives you, 
kill her ! ’ ” 


VIII 


POSSESSION 


12 


— 














V 








* 


*■ 









D ECEMBER passed on, snowy and icy ; but 
noisy with the festivities of that imperial 
epoch so greedy of enjoyment. 

The year 1858 opened with the sounds of 
music and the rhythm of polkas and quadrilles ; 
an endless feast among the government offi- 
cials; an overflow of official happiness. Balls 
at the Tuileries, balls at the many palaces, 
balls everywhere. Every night arose from the 
feverish city an atmosphere of pleasure, the 
perfumed dresses whirling in the waltz, and the 
constant whispering, flattering and giggling go- 
ing on behind fans. Not for a century, had the 
French officials feasted in their uniforms so 
much, danced so much, supped so much, made 
love so much. 

Yes, hurrah ! for joy ; life is so short, and em- 
pires so unstable. 

But while the worldly and elegant Paris kept 
thus intoxicated by its own gayety, in the man- 
sion of the Avenue Breteuil, the life of each of 
its occupants continued on, severe and monoto- 
nous. 

O79) 


i8o 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


Days succeeded days, the morrow resembled 
the day just ended. 

A complete transformation had now taken 
place in Marcel Besnard’s disposition. The 
fashionable young man, the elegant beau, had 
disappeared, and in his stead stood a morose, 
taciturn individual. No more fine suppers, no 
more theater parties, no more gambling. 

What was he doing with himself, this Vis- 
count Besnard, this fine dancer, this leader of 
cotillons, who was sought after by all the 
mothers of marriageable daughters ? Grow- 
ing, day after day, more unsociable, he was, 
little by little, losing the habits of society; 
he refused all invitations, neglected all the 
duties of politeness. He had even given up 
going to the “ first Monday of the Empress,” 
a great breach of court etiquette, indeed. His 
father becoming uneasy about him, occasion- 
ally addressed him some gentle reprimand ; 
but a shrug of the shoulders was the only an- 
swer Marcel would give him. On the other 
hand, the young man worked hard. Thanks to 
his father’s influence, the State Council had 
excused his long absence, and after a long ser- 
mon from the eloquent M. Baroche, Viscount 
Besnard had been reinstated in his functions ; 
and had, strangely enough, turned out a zeal- 
ous and hard worker. 

Every morning, at about eleven o’clock, he 


POSSESSION 1 8 I 

might be seen, waiting for the opening of the 
session, and walking about in that big, solemn 
hall, whose panels were decorated with pictures 
representing the virtues of former judges and 
lawyers. There, from the high seats which the 
State Councilors occupied, Marcel could admire 
the lawyers working themselves up to a high 
pitch of well-paid indignation. Often there 
were quarrels in this Sanctuary of Themis. 

There was a Monsieur Marchand especially, 
a fiery little man, rolling his big eyes behind 
big glasses ; then the quiet Monsieur Boula- 
tignier, with solemn gestures, and speech like 
that of an oracle — an ultra-conservative gentle- 
man, despising everything new. 

Marcel’s humbler position did not allow him 
to take part in their discussions, but he reported 
them all very faithfully. The President of his 
Section, Monsieur Boudet, soon learned to 
appreciate his qualities, and predicted a fine 
future for him, a superb destiny. “Ah ! yes,” 
he would say, “ this young Besnard will 
succeed.” 

In the meanwhile, Marcel went nowhere, 
except on the most extraordinary errands. 
At nightfall, when the sittings of the State 
Council were over, Marcel would go out, last 
and alone, always alone. Then began the most 
outlandish promenade. 

Going along the quays of the Seine, he would 


1 82 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


disappear in the most forlorn parts of Grenelle. 
January’s keen wind would cut his face, the 
snow would cover him ; he felt nothing, he 
saw nothing, but kept walking faster and 
faster. At times, he would lean over the par- 
apet of the river, and then, how the unfortu- 
nate man would watch the pieces of ice rushing 
towards the abyss ! 

Once at the bridge of Jena, he would cross 
the river and plunge into the darkness of the 
Trocadero quarter. That part of Paris at that 
time had an unsavory reputation ; it was nothing 
but an accumulation of shapeless rocks, big 
weeds and piles of brush. At that place, this 
strange pedestrian would stop, sit down, tired 
out, on a rough bench, and, like an insane man 
after a fit, remain in a stupor. 

Then his eyes would turn towards Passy and 
watch this suburb getting lighted little by 
little. Suddenly he would rise, almost run, and 
get home, out of breath. And his father, in 
seeing him come back, would shake his head 
sorrowfully ; and Marie-Anne would wipe 
a tear. But he noticed nothing, and, at the 
family meal, would either be silent or nervously 
vivacious. 

One evening, however, he crossed the Troca- 
dero, and followed the Seine to the first cottages 
of Auteuil. Then, plowing his way through 
those deserted parts, he began ascending the 


POSSESSION . 183 

hill of Boulainvilliers, and, at about a third of 
the ascent, he turned to the right. In front of 
him was a mysterious alley with villas on both 
sides ; the street des Jardins — a small street 
winding among trees and fences. 

Almost at the entrance of this mysterious 
alley was a pavilion in the Louis XVI style, a 
pretty little retreat. Marcel now stood still, 
looking. It was here that, during the last 
spring, she had hidden herself. “ She,” “ the 
other one,” here that they had exchanged their 
first vows ! 

The house seemed deserted — dead, like their 
poor love. Its doors and shutters were closed ; 
no noise, no light. Solitude weighed heavy on 
the “ hermitage ; ” and the snow, melting down 
from its roof, drop by drop, gave it the appear- 
ance of shedding tears. And Marcel looked 
on, all in a perspiration, this cold night. Ah ! 
how well he knew it, this unlucky dwelling, 
every corner of it ! Over there was the wall 
covered with ivy, which, one evening, he dared 
to climb over- — the first evening ! Behind the 
wall was a large lawn bordered with lilac bushes. 
What intoxicating odors came forth out of that 
garden that night in May in the perfumed spring ! 
How he shuddered, going with stealthy steps 
over those lawns covered with daisies ! On the 
ground floor, the high window was open. A 
lamp lighted the room discreetly, and Rosina 


1 84 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

was there lazily lounging — so beautiful in her 
mourning dress, with a book in her lap, and a 
far-away expression in her eyes, as if lost in a 
dream. He entered. She uttered a little cry of 
surprise and rose, quite pale. “ You ! you ! ” And 
during three months, they had tasted a perfect 
happiness in perfect mystery. At nightfall 
she used to open the window, and every night 
he would carefully glide in. And now — now, 
oh, wretch ! thief of love! murderer of hearts! 
shameless one ! 

With one bound, Marcel rushed towards the 
house ; knocked with all his might. The sinis- 
ter noise resounded afar, and an echo repeated 
it ; but nobody moved in this closed house. 
Again! and again ! Nobody! She must, then, 
have left Paris, this hated woman. Gone, es- 
caped forever ! “ Ah ! what a coward I am ! ” 

murmured the wretched man, and he raised his 
fist with a threatening gesture. 

Yes, indeed, he was a coward, this insane 
victim of love, for he had already knocked 
twenty times at the door of this deserted 
house ; and, notwithstanding his repeated dis- 
appointments, the next night he was there 
again. 

On that day, however, the house seemed to 
be inhabited : the blinds were opened ; lights 
could be seen through all the windows. 

Who, then, was hiding behind those walls ? 


POSSESSION 


185 


As he had done the day before, Marcel hur- 
ried to the front door and knocked. He waited 
quite a while when at last a little window in 
the panel was opened ; and a rough voice asked : 

“ What do you wish ? ” 

A name, that of the Princess di Carpegna was 
on his lips ; but he refrained uttering it, not 
daring to, and in a timid voice asked : 

“ Who lives in this house ? ” 

“ Monsieur le Baron de La Chesnaye,” replied 
the voice ; and the window was abruptly closed. 

And there before this closed door, Marcel 
stood stupefied. “ La Chesnaye ! He had 
bought the cottage, then ? But, he must have 
seen Rosina, talked to her, transacted business 
with her! Ah! If one could only ask a few 
questions.” 

And Marcel knocked again. 

This time, nobody deigned to answer. At 
the end of the alley, he could see some shad- 
ows sliding by, some silhouettes of men, prob- 
ably attracted by the noise : the street “ des 
Jardins” was not deserted as it had been the 
day before. 

Seven o’clock was striking at the church of 
Auteuil. The vibrations of the big clock sud- 
denly brought Marcel Besnard to his senses. 
What about his father and the gentle Marie- 
Anne who were waiting for him ? He started 
on a run towards Paris. 




IX 

Monsieur Lazare’s Message 




COLD mist was beginning to fall when at 



last Marcel arrived at the Avenue de Bre- 


teuil. This cold night and in such a lonely 
quarter as that of the Champs de Mars, he had 
not been able to find a carriage ; and he arrived 
very much behind time. 

The avenue at this late hour was almost 
deserted, poorly lighted by a few lamps ; each 
passer-by was hurrying to reach his dwelling, 
and they all looked like ghosts disappearing in 
the fog. 

In front of Count Besnard’s mansion, how- 
ever, a man was sitting apparently asleep ; he 
was on a bench, with bent head and back 
covered with frost ; some homeless tramp prob- 
ably. Still running, Marcel passed him and 
was going to ring the bell when he heard him- 
self called : 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte.” 

The sleeper had risen and was coming forward. 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte Besnard? ” 

“ I am he.” 



190 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

Marcel looked at the individual so well in- 
formed : a big fellow about forty years old, 
with black beard, and uncombed hair. He 
wore the uniform of the Parisian Messenger — 
the blue corduroy jacket and seal cap. 

“ What do you wish of me, my good man?” 

“ Sir, I bring you a small memento.” 

“A memento ? ” said Marcel, surprised at 
these strange words. 

“ Yes ; a message from Monsieur Lazare.” 

“ I do not know Monsieur Lazare.” 

“ No; but he knows you well.” 

Marcel kept looking at the man. Where had 
he already seen this face? His memory re- 
called no name ; still he was sure he had met 
somewhere this thick beard and untidy head. 
But where ? On what public street ? at the 
door of what night restaurant? A foreigner, 
surely — his accent left no doubt — some Corsi- 
can, or an Italian, perhaps. All sorts of wild 
ideas were rushing through his head ; and a 
strong emotion was taking possession of him. 

“ Let us go in,” he said. 

The other stopped him. 

“ It is useless to go in, sir ; you would only 
come right out again.” 

And he added, presenting a box tied with a 
string : 

“Take this! it brings peace to the heart ! ” 

This romantic sentence was uttered in such a 


MONSIEUR LAZARE'S MESSAGE 191 

singular tone that Marcel shuddered. The 
peace of the heart ! Who could be this senti- 
mental individual who divined his anguish so 
accurately? Very much puzzled, Marcel ex- 
tended his hand : 

“ I have no taste for bad jokes, my man, and 
my cane is ready for practical jokers — Now give 
this to me,” 

He took the box, stepped near a lamp-post 
and broke the string. 

First, he found a wrapping of cloth ; this 
being torn off, there lay a wooden casket care- 
fully sealed. The seals flew to pieces, Marcel 
opened it, and suddenly uttered an exclama- 
tion of anxious surprise — at the bottom of the 
box reposed a bunch of faded wild roses. 

With his face bent over the yellowish petals, 
Marcel tried to understand. The rose from the 
bushes! The wild rose! “Her” favorite 
flower, “ that woman’s ” favorite flower ! “ The 
emblem,” she had said, “ of her name ! ” A 
pretense for big, tragic words ! 

And the lover recalled the past ; he could 
see in the distance the Castle of Sasseville, the 
shade of its big trees, the high wall covered 
with vines, the bush of wild roses, and, among 
the rust-colored leaves and thorns, a single 
bunch of blossoms, the last of the fall season. 
And, there still, he could see the form of his 
beloved, lithe and graceful, with the evening 


192 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

purple as a background ; she was going towards 
the bush, and gathering the chilled flowers, was 
presenting them to her lover after having 
kissed them fondly. “ Take these flowers, 
Marcel; your Rosina bears the same name, 
and like them, her spirit is wild. In the hours 
of discouragement, poor friend, if ever you are 
visited by grief, look at them, and, when you 
think you love me no more, they will tell you 

to love still .” O ! souvenirs of broken 

vows! burning lies ! pitiless torments ! remem- 
brances of happiness forever gone ! 

He felt an indescribably cruel pang ; the 
vision vanished. 

“ Who sends me this ? ” said he in a faltering 
voice. 

“ I told you already ; Monsieur Lazare.” 

“ Where does your Monsieur Lazare live ? ” 

“ I came to take you to him/’ 

“ What does he want of me ? ” 

“ He will tell you himself.” 

Marcel hesitated a minute. 

“ No, not this evening. Come back tomor- 
row.” 

The enigmatic personage shook his head, and 
became very solemn. 

“ Tomorrow will be too late! Monsieur 
Lazare is dying, and a terrible secret weighs 
heavily on his conscience.” 

“Ah ! I begin to understand.” 


MONSIEUR LAZARE'S MESSAGE I93 

“ No, you are mistaken ; you do not under- 
stand. Come, let us hurry.” 

The son of Count Besnard still hesitating, 
the man leaned forward : 

“ They wish to talk to you about ‘ her.’ ” 

“ Her ? ” This time his insane love got the 
best of his reason. Marcel turned towards the 
mysterious messenger and cried wildly: “Let 
us go, then ! I follow you.” 

They hurried away. 

On the Esplanade, an empty carriage was 
passing ; they entered it. 

“ To Montmartre,” said the foreigner, “ Place 
St. Pierre, at the entrance of the street de 
l’Eglise.” 





























































































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X 

MONSIEUR LAZARE 




I T was a mean looking alley where they finally 
stopped, very steep, bordered by unoccupied 
and sandy land. The lower part of it was 
buried in the fog, while the top reached to the 
old church of Montmartre. In that inhospitable 
street, there was no house, except an old, 
dilapidated five-story rookery, where the light 
of a few candles was the only sign of life. 

“ Ecco ! 99 said Marcel's guide, “we have ar- 
rived. You ask for Signora Giulia Negri’s 
room. That is where Monsieur Lazare lives. 
As for me, I leave you ; my mission is ended.” 

And the man went down the street leaving 
his companion to his fate. 

Without hesitation Marcel entered the den. . 
First, a narrow, damp, bad smelling hall ; then, 
at the end of it, under the stairs, the janitor’s 
lodging. 

“ Where is the room of Madame Giulia 
Negri ? ” 

In the janitor’s den a wretched tailor was 
mending old clothes. At the name of Negri, 
he quickly left his work and advanced towards 
the visitor. 

( J 97) 


1 98 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

“ You come, no doubt, for the citizen who is 
living up there/’ he said. “ No use of your 
getting out of breath. He must be dead by 
this time. Anyway, it’s on the fifth floor, 
through the left hall, third door to the 
right.” 

Thereupon, the mender of rags went back to 
his work. 

Marcel Besnard began ascending the dirty 
stairs, a shaky spiral, getting narrower as it 
went up. A smoky lamp lighted the first 
flight ; but as soon as the second was reached, 
he met with complete darkness. Soon, he had 
to stop, his steps became heavy, his thoughts 
still more so. 

What was he going to that Monsieur Lazare 
for? To ask him for an explanation of this 
mystery? What folly! Well so it was, a 
folly! but he must know and he would know! 
Who had sent those flowers recalling so many 
passionate remembrances ? What was the 
meaning of this bunch of wild roses? They 
seemed to express a regret — a remorse — a de- 
sire to see him again ! To see her again ! Ah ! 
ah ! wretch, indeed, we will see ! 

He continued to ascend. 

On the fifth landing, complete darkness. 
Marcel felt the wall to guide himself, but found 
no sign of any opening. With his fist he 
knocked against the wall, and finally called out. 


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MONSIEUR LAZARE 


199 


A door was thrown open, and an old woman 
holding a light looked down the hall. La Giulia 
Negri, assuredly, this old woman wearing the 
costume of an Italian artist’s model, with her 
scarlet skirt, velvet waist and unbleached chem- 
isette. 

“ Whom do you wish to see, sir? ” she asked 
in a querulous voice. 

“ La Signora Negri.” 

“ I am she.” 

“ Can I see Monsieur Lazare?” ' 

The woman clasped her hands. 

“See him? Alas! Soon God alone will see 
him ! ” 

She stopped short. 

“ He is calling, I think. Wait here. I will 
come back right away. ” 

She closed the door, leaving the inquirer in 
profound darkness. 

A vague terror, mixed with growing shame, 
was gradually taking possession of him. What ! 
was he going to be present at this agony ? How 
humiliating! You had better run away, hurry- 
ing as fast as you can, you ridiculous fool ! Do 
you not see they are making a plaything of 
you ? Do you not understand it is some snare 
you have fallen into ? Come, hurry away ! now 
is your last chance ! 

But Marcel stayed. Might not this dying man 
possess a secret on which his life and peace de- 


200 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


pended ? And in the dark he waited and 
listened. 

At last the old woman reappeared and sig- 
nalled him to come. 

“ Walk in, sir ; the padrone wishes to see you. 
Ma , oh ma , il povero ! ” 

And words, gesture, expression of face, all 
the Italian mimic said clearly, that Monsieur 
Lazare was at the worst. She discreetly made 
way for the visitor. Marcel entered. 

The room into which Marcel was ushered 
smelt of the odor of bad food, and was low- 
ceilinged and poverty stricken. The plastering 
was cracked in many places and allowed the 
rafters to be seen ; when it stormed, rain or 
snow must have poured through. Everything 
spoke of privation : the torn and spotted paper 
on the walls, the narrow window where rags 
took the place of panes, the dirty straw bed on 
the floor — certainly this dwelling was often 
without bread. However, on the tiled floor 
lay a moquette rug whose faded colors must 
have seen better days — strange luxury in this 
needy lodging ! perhaps a courteous attention 
from the landlady to this Monsieur Lazare, the 
mysterious padrone . There was also a brand- 
new walnut bedstead with a fresh counterpane ; 
the bed of the sick man, surely ; as to the 
woman, she was satisfied with the dirty litter in 
the corner. 


MONSIEUR LAZARE 


201 


This den was at that moment partly in the 
dark, having no other light than a lamp with 
its shade on. Near the stove a man dozed in 
an armchair — an old, decrepit man, all drawn 
up, and almost shapeless. His breathing was 
painful, short and wheezing. In the silence of 
the place, it sounded like the death rattle. 

At the creaking of the door, the invalid 
seemed to awaken ; he sat up, and in a strange- 
ly weak voice, said : 

“ Come near, Monsieur le Vicomte, my fine 
friend ; come near me. You are welcome ! ” 

Marcel went straight up to him and cried : 

“ You ? ” 

He had recognized the Prince di Carpegna. 

A chuckle shook the body of the patient : 

“ Yes,” he said, “ *tis I ! Funny occurrence, 
is it not ? Lazarus of old woke up at the Mas- 
ter’s command, and the Prince di Carpegna 
comes forth to-day from the sepulcher you sent 
him to ! Be seated, dear sir ; we must have a 
talk together. Well, you are staring at me with 
just the scared look Don Giovanni had before 
the statue of the Commandatore ! ” 

A fit of coughing, followed by half-suffoca- 
tion, stopped short his lugubrious joke. He 
reached out his hand towards a bottle of medi- 
cine placed near him, and swallowed a few 
mouthfuls. 

“ The health of the dying, a Milanese receipt, 


202 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


the wonderful discovery of the celebrated 
Verga. Will you taste it ? ” 

And he chuckled again in silence. 

“You will excuse, I hope, Monsieur le Vi- 
comte, this wretchedly poor dwelling. The 
worthy woman who is willing to give me a 
shelter is a courageous creature," a country- 
woman of mine, and devoted to our unfor- 
tunate Italy. Yes, my good Giulia, we 
scatter our bones in exile, but the winds shall 
carry back our ashes to our country, where our 
sons shall inhale them, and the holy hatred of 
the father live again in his progeny ! But par- 
don me, Monsieur le Vicomte, this absurd di- 
gression. Alas ! we suffer so — Where did I 
stop? No, the Prince di Carpegna cannot 
receive you to-day in a palace ; he is in hiding, 
or rather he is dead ; however, Monsieur Lazare 
is very happy to see you.” 

He paused ; then painfully drawing nearer, 
and leaning towards Marcel Besnard, said : 

“ Our beautiful Rosina is in Paris. Do you 
wish to see her again ? ” 

Marcel could not repress a sudden thrill of 
disgust ; but he answered nothing. 

“ O ! I know the words you refuse to utter,” 
the old man went on. “ I can read your inmost 
thoughts. You think : this Prince di Carpegna, 
what a rascal he is, how infamous! You are 
mistaken, sir ; my honor, as I understand it, is 


MONSIEUR LAZARE 


203 


well worth yours ; and as to my moral character, 
no matter what your French shopkeepers would 
think of that ! Besides, I would not have dis- 
turbed you yet; I even would have waited will- 
ingly a while longer. But death, with which I 
have trifled, will not let me delay any longer. 
It has taken hold of me, it is choking me ; it is 
the consequence of a certain wound of which 
you may have heard before — in fact it was 
your work, sir, and a fine marksman’s work it 
was indeed ! So, before dying, I wish to make 
you happy — you, of all men ! Now listen : 
our amiable Rosina is in Paris ; say, do you 
wish to see her again ? ” 

Another fit of coughing overcame him, and 
again he felt for the Milanese medicine, the 
discovery of the illustrious Verga. Bewildered 
by such cynicism, Marcel listened without 
answering. At last he was going to know ! 

A few minutes passed thus, and the spell 
was once more quieted. With a familiar ges- 
ture, Monsieur Lazare tried to take the hand 
of the young man ; but the latter drew back 
scornfully. 

“ What a charming woman, is our beautiful 
Rosina,” reiterated the Prince di Carpegna, “ a 
goddess with Venus’ eyes and Juno’s hair! 
Sparkling, brilliant, writing prose like a Sevign6, 
and poetry better than a Deshoulieres ; in a 
word — perfectly charming! Yes, but very 


204 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

poor, without a franc to her name. Who, then, 
is, just now, paying for all her luxury and 
adorning her with more jewels than the Ma- 
donna of Loretto? O! I am not jealous, I 
assure you ! Could it be you, I wonder, dear 
sir ? Please do not twist your glove so ! An 
act of violence towards a dying man would be 
cowardly, and you are not a coward — at least I 
never took you for one. Tell me, who then 
pays for your Rosina’s wants and whims? ” 

And each word, pronounced very low, was 
interrupted by coughing, suffocation, long 
silence and sinister chuckling ; it was horrible. 

In spite of the Milanese panacea, the patient 
was failing rapidly ; his speech was not so dis- 
tinct, his breathing harder ; before long, cer- 
tainly, a last fit would stamp forever his insolent 
smile on his lips and overcome this desperate 
fighter against the agony of death. 

With a supreme effort, he gathered all his 
strength as if to risk a last assault. 

“I,” he said, “ for the last year, have been 
dead to the world ! The ignominy of my 
widow cannot reach me in that tomb where 
they all think I am gone ; my honor as a hus- 
band is safe ! But you, sir, who have publicly 
lived with her — you who declared your open 
intentions of marrying her — you whom her 
desertion drove to despair, what do you expect 
to do ? ” 


MONSIEUR LAZARE 


205 


Marcel rose, trembling. 

“ Enough ! I refuse to understand you ! ” 

By a supreme effort, the old man sat up, 
and, this time, took hold of the Assessor's 
arm. 

“Ah ! you refuse to understand me ! But 
don't you understand anything, then, O, you 
stupid fool ! Don’t you know what abomina- 
ble ridicule is attached to your name to-day ! 
Ah! Ah! You poor silly fellow, while you 
were going all over Europe looking for that 
woman, she was quietly living in Paris with 
another, a new lover — this one, a beloved 


“The name of that man? Wretch! Wretch! 
Yes, you truly belong to your country of trai- 
tors ; not daring to strike yourself, you make 
others strike ! ” 

Without heeding this insult, the Prince 
continued : 

“To-night! do you hear? They are to- 
gether ! do you understand ? at Passy ! — in 
the house you know so well ! You had better 
go ; you had better run, sir ! But be sure to 
go there well armed ! " 

With his fingers, with his nails, he was hold- 
ing on to the hand which had used him so 
roughly, and, half choking, allowed himself to 
be dragged about the room : 

“Armed ! Kill, or they’ll kill you ! Passy ! 


206 the court OF NAPOLEON III 

The house ! Street ! down stairs, she — and — - 
and ” 

Suddenly he let go, uttered a cry, and fell to 
the floor. 

Hearing the fall, La Negri, who had been 
watching outside, hurried in. 

“ Dead !” she cried, “he is dead, the noble 
prince, the holy martyr for his country ! ” 

She groaned and lamented, and leaning over, 
spoke to the prostrate body in accents of des- 
pair. 

“ Why did you die before seeing your coun- 
try free again ? Why did you not wait for the 
day which is coming, the approaching dawn of 
liberty ? ” 

With the assistance of Marcel, the Italian 
woman managed to lift the Prince di Carpegna 
upon the rug. Then she lit a candle, placed it, 
as a church taper, near the convulsed face, -and 
knelt down. Dumb and speechless at this hor- 
rible sight, Marcel dared neither move nor 
speak. He was watching for a return of life, 
and, hoping for a last revelation, he listened at- 
tentively. The woman had taken a prayer 
book, and while kneeling, recited the litanies 
to the Virgin : “ Virgo clemens , Virgo virginum , 
ora pro nobis ! ” Prince di Carpegna was still 
breathing, but remained unconscious, the death- 
rattle in his throat growing weaker and weaker. 
Time was flying ; outside, the clock of the 


MONSIEUR LAZARE 


207 

Church of Montmartre was striking eleven. And 
still from this chamber of horror and death, the 
supplicating litanies were ascending towards the 
Mother of Mercy : “ Gate of Heaven, Refuge 
of Sinners, pray for us ! ” 

Strange to say, now, at each supplication, the 
prostrate body moved, the hands twitched as if 
in anger. Suddenly, La Negri interrupted her 
prayers. Had she understood? She leaned 
over the dying man, and like a nurse watching 
a sleeping child, she raised his head and began 
to sing. 

She was sadly singing a popular Italian song, 
the song of Venetian gayeties, when Venice was 
gay. “ Mamma, mamma ! Love me, love me ! ” 
Suddenly the dying man moved his head, 
opened his eyes, and moved his lips. 

11 Dio ! ” he stammered, “ Dio mio , tu patria! ” 
Then his head fell back, then a great sigh, then 
— nothing. He was now, indeed, frightful to 
look at ; his open mouth seemed to be still 
laughing, and his large, staring eyes, full of 
hatred, seemed to be still threatening. 

No, death had been unwilling to wait ; it had 
impatiently cut short the revelation. No de- 
nouncing words could henceforth come out of 
those pale lips. Lazarus had died carrying away 
with him to the tomb half of his secret. 

Terrified and enraged, Marcel Besnard rushed 
out of this chamber and its dreadful silence. 


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THE STREET DES JARDINS 




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N OW he was walking away slowly, and 
slowly also, by his side, walked the Prince 
di Carpegna. When he reached the outside 
Boulevard he sank on a bench, and there also 
sat the persistent ghost, the dying denuncia- 
tor, with his pale face and insolent laugh. Mar- 
cel could hear the grinding of the death rattle, 
the fall of the body, and those last words inter- 
rupted by the agony : “ To-night — together — 

in the house ! She ! ” 

The house ? this mansion of the Street des 
Jardins which had been thrown open to him ! 
Now this despicable La Chesnaye was her 
nightly guest, no doubt ! She ! Oh ! how vile ! 

At times though, reason seemed to enlighten 
this tormented soul plunged in darkness. 

“ Why should he hide himself so, this old 
Carpegna ? Why this change of name, and, 
for a whole year, this comedy of death ? Yes, 
why ?” 

No matter! passion would answer at once; 
this is another mystery to unravel, but later 
— to-morrow ! She — her — to-night ! 

He rose, and continued his walk. 

( 211 ) 


212 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


Soon he reached the Faubourg Montmartre 
and the Street Le Peletier. 

Though it was after midnight, that street 
was full of people and very noisy. To the 
left, the entrance of the old Opera House was 
brilliantly lighted, for on that evening, Janu- 
ary 13, there was a grand masquerade ball — 
one of those festivals where charity is the pre- 
text for revelry. The higher demi-monde was 
there in full blast. Marcel Besnard was tempted 
a moment to hire a domino and rush in the 
crowd. Certainly he would forget, in there ! 
Let this night be over ! Let daylight return ! 
No; he passed on. The sidewalks were crowded, 
the stores open yet, the tradesmen be- 
hind their counters, night restaurants, candy 
stores, perfume venders, costumers, and the 
like. 

At the end of the Passage de POpera an 
armorer was attracting the attention of the 
passers-by with the brightness of his window, 
where sabers, swords, hunting and military 
rifles shone brilliantly. On a stand was a row 
of revolvers. Marcel, like many of the prome- 
naders, had stopped before the show window ; 
he remained but a moment, then continued his 
walk. 

Snow was again falling — a gale was blowing 
over Paris ; so the young man came back into 
the covered gallery. There was nobody now in 


V 

N 

THE STREET DES JARDINS 213 

front of the gunsmith's store ; he halted, then 
approached and began to examine the weapons 
attentively. 

Yes, how beautifully made were those little 
revolvers — regular jewels ; one especially, with 
an ivory handle, was reflecting the light of the 
gas. O ! how easy to carry, and worthy to be 
given as a present ! “ I know, Marcel, I know of 
a tie a thousand times stronger than marriage. 

It is called death ! When your beloved 
deceives you, kill him or her." 

Quickly Marcel walked off, but soon stopped 
short. The shining revolver was drawing him 
to it; he entered the store. 

The gunsmith advanced to meet him. 

“ What do you wish ,sir?" 

“ How much is this revolver, the one with 
the ivory handle? ” 

The man took from the window the desired 
weapon. 

“A real jewel, sir, the ‘ French and National 
Colt ; ’ patented by our firm. Look at it ; it has 
a safety lock, and never misses fire ; it is 
admirable ! Price : sixty francs." 

Marcel threw the money on the counter and 
took possession of the attractive little weapon ; 
he handled and turned it every way. 

“A box of cartridges goes with it," added 
the dealer. 

“No matter, keep it," was the rather sur- 


214 THE court OF NAPOLEON III 

prising answer. “Ah ! would you please load 
the weapon for me ? ” 

The man placed six cartridges in the six 
chambers. 

“ There it is, sir,” he said, handing it back to 
its owner; “just the thing for thieves of money 
or love.” 

Without even smiling at the joke, Marcel 
put the pistol in his pocket and departed. 

For a few seconds, the eyes of the inventor 
of the “ French and National Colt ” followed the 
sinister retreating figure ; then he walked to the 
back of the store, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ Well ! ” murmured he, “ another husband ! ” 

On the Boulevard, Marcel noticed some 
hacks standing at the curb, and calling up one 
of them, he said : 

“ Ten francs if you take me quickly to 
Passy at the bottom of the Boulainvilliers 
Street ! ” 

The horse started on a gallop ; and half an 
hour later Marcel alighted at the foot of the 
hill. 

Though it was so late and the weather so 
cold, the hill was not deserted as usual. Here 
and there, he could see human forms gliding 
through this solitude. 

At the corner of the Street des Jardins 
stood a mysterious looking carriage without 
any lamps, a coup£. Marcel examined it and 


THE STREET DES JARDINS 21 5 

on the door was a monogram, C and L en- 
twined. La Chesnaye ! 

Insane with rage, the lover felt for the handle 
of his pistol, and rushed into the alley. 

The storm had ceased — only a few flakes of 
snow flew through the air ; but in this narrow 
street the melting snow and ice made a great 
deal of mud, and there arose an odor of damp 
wood and rotten leaves. Low-hanging clouds 
obscured the rays of the new moon, and ren- 
dered the alley very dark. The silence was 
almost appalling. 

The house remained discreetly closed, though 
one could see a streak of light at each window. 

They were there ! 

Marcel glided along the wall of the park. He 
climbed on a stone and with both hands seized 
the hanging branches of ivy. 

Just then the moon shone, and he saw at the 
other end of the alley two men walking slowly. 
Suddenly they rushed toward him, shouting 
like mad. Confound it! He had been seen! 
But too late ! 

With one bound he had reached the top of 
the wall ; a jump — and he fell among the bushes, 
disentangled himself, rapidly crossed the lawn, 
and never stopped till he stood on the steps, 
breathless. 

The shutters were closed, but behind them 
he heard low voices ! 


21 6 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


Marcel shook the shutters violently; they 
gave way; they were not hooked inside. 

There was a gentle cry in the room ; then it 
grew suddenly dark ; “ they ” had put out the 
lights. With all his weight Marcel bore on the 
door; it flew open. It-nvas not even bolted. 

The madman rushed ahead. 

Then, the light reflected by the snow being 
let in, he saw a shadow hurrying away. Grasping 
his revolver, he aimed at random and fired. 

Almost immediately the would-be murderer 
felt himself borne to the floor, knees pressing 
on his breast, his wrist twisted and his revolver 
snatched from him. But he offered no resist- 
ance, neither did he try to defend himself ; he 
remained there prostrate and helpless 

In the house, everything was confusion, hurry- 
ing steps and smothered exclamations, a sort of 
silent tumult ; then the noise of a door ; then 
the rumble of a carriage rolling away. 

A man’s voice was now raised, this time loud 
and clear, that of La Chesnaye. It said : 

“ Feel easy, gentlemen ; the Emperor is not 
wounded.” 

The Emperor ! 

At last the room was lighted up ; policemen 
came in with torches. In front of them stood 
Princess di Carpegna, disheveled, half dressed, 
and deathly pale. 

She ran towards him whom they were hold- 












































































I 




t 

































































































































THE STREET DES JARDINS 21 ? 

ing down on the floor, leaned over to see his 
face and uttered a cry, the cry of a wounded 
wild beast. 

“You! Oh! the ruffians! It is Marcel 
they have sent here ! ” 

Then straightening herself up, and speaking 
to the crowd, she shrieked : 

“ Well, take us away together, vile rabble ! 
This man is my lover, and I am his accomplice ! ” 















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PART THE THIRD 


I 

VERY URGENT 




N Friday, the 15th of January, 1858, when 


V_y Paris awoke, it heard of Orsini’s attempt 
on the life of the Emperor. The news, how- 
ever, spread very slowly, and on the outskirts 
of the city they only heard of it late in the 
forenoon. 

On that day, it was about nine o’clock, when 
the oldmaid servant, Philomene, entered her 
master’s apartment, bringing him the morning 
mail — two letters and a few newspapers. 

Count Besnard was already dressed to go out 
with Marie-Anne to hear their daily mass. He 
seemed to be suffering more than usual. Of 
late, his thin, consumptive face had taken a 
purplish hue ; he complained of his legs being 
swollen, and of a painful tension of the veins of 
the neck ; his heart troubled him constantly; 
his breath was short and came by jerks ; at 
times he seemed almost suffocating. The day 
before, his physician, feeling more and more 
anxious, had ascertained the rapid progress of 
the cardiac hypertrophia. According to the 
method then in use, he had increased the dose 


( 321 ) 


222 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


of digitalis, prescribed that terrible drug, helle- 
bore, and above all, recommended that his 
patient should have no anxieties or emotions of 
any kind. 

No emotions ! When, for the last forty-eight 
hours, the Count had gone through such mortal 
anxieties ! 

No news from his son ! What had become of 
Marcel ? He had left the palace of the Council 
of State, Wednesday, towards six o’clock in the 
evening, and ever since they had been waiting 
for him ! What new act of folly had this young 
man, forsaken of God, been guilty of? And 
how many more tears of grief or shame was the 
father to shed over this son? 

When Marie-Anne saw Philomene enter with 
the letters on a salver, she ran towards her. 

“ Give ! give them to me ! ” 

The young girl looked at the envelopes and 
dropped them, discouraged ; neither of them was 
in her brother’s writing. 

Two official letters : a square one with the 
blue sign of the Council of State; another, 
smaller and less formal, with the red seal of 
some minister ; both were marked : P. O. Very 
urgent . 

Without a word Count Besnard took these 
letters and broke the seals. One was the notice 


VERY URGENT 223 

of a meeting, written in an unusually pressing 
style : 

Sir and Dear Colleague: — His Honor, the Pres- 
ident of the Council of State, has decided to call together 
the Council of State, in an extraordinary and general 
assembly to-day, at three o’clock, punctually. You are ex- 
pected to be present. Object : Important communica- 
tions from the government and reading of an address to 
His Majesty the Emperor. 

The Master of Requests, General Secretary of the 
Council of State. Boilay. 

“ What is the matter now ? ” muttered Count 
Besnard, surprised at these unusual formulas. 
“ The Moniteur is going to tell me, no doubt.” 

He tore the wrapper around the Govern- 
ment journal, glanced at it, and uttered an ex- 
clamation. 

“ Another attempt ! The scoundrels ! ” 

Then, greatly agitated, and, for the time 
being, forgetting the other letter, the one with 
the red seal, he opened the official newspaper, 
and began to read aloud : 

“ Last night, at half-past eight, as their 
Majesties, the Emperor and the Empress, 
arrived at the Opera, three explosions were 
heard. 

“ Many persons who stood in front of the 
theater were wounded ; several seriously. 

“ Neither the Emperor nor the Empress were 
hit. 

“ A searching investigation was begun at 


224 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


once ; several persons have already been ar- 
rested/’ 

Count Besnard threw down the paper and 
began to walk to and fro in the greatest excite- 
ment. 

“ What a horror ! ” he cried ; “ but, no wonder, 
with such ministers ! Not one of them watches 
over his master’s safety nor over that of unhappy 
France! They are all entirely wrapt up in 
their pleasures, these fellows ! In their hands, 
the country has become a vile resort, a home 
for conspirators ! Even our judges do not 
escape the disease ! Oh ! how these second 
of December men have deceived our Christian 
hopes! How often have I been ashamed of 
my former credulity, and found myself crying 
over the fate of those I once caused to cry ! 
What do they expect from us to-day, these fops 
who are our ministers ? They want exceptional 
laws, no doubt, to save their weak selves. No ! 
no ! The time has come for you to disappear, 
gentlemen ; you are condemned ! As for me, 
if my conscience commands me to fight against 
you, no matter what happens, I shall fight 
you ” 

“Oh! father,” begged Marie-Anne, “ out of 
pity for us, do think of your health ! ” 

But the old man’s only answer was one of 
those gestures with which Macbeth sent “ to 
the dogs ” the doctor as well as the medicine. 


VERY URGENT 


225 


And the judge without mercy, the purveyor 
of gallows and exiles, the “ White Butcher/' 
took long strides about the room, giving utter- 
ance to his unbounded disappointment as a 
Catholic, and his remorse as an honest man. 

After a time, this feverish anger cooled down, 
and Count Besnard sat down again to his desk. 
Then his eyes fell on the second letter — the one 
with the red seal — which, in his agitation, he had 
neglected to open. He took it and turned it 
over between his fingers : 

“Ah! ah!" he said, “a love letter from the 
Secretary of State ! the most subtle corrupter 
of this government ; my superior and, besides, 
my personal enemy ! i Per Order,' and ‘ Very 
urgent.' Gracious ! so much business ! Why 
does the .gentleman honor me with his prose ? ’’ 

He tore the envelope, and his face expressed 
the greatest surprise. 

“ Mon Dieu ! what does it all mean ? Help 
me to understand, darling ; listen : 

“Monsieur le Comte : His Honor, the Secretary of 
State, desires to see you without delay about a subject of 
the greatest importance, which concerns you personally. 
You will please come as soon as you receive this letter. 
His Honor will await you until eleven o’clock. 

The Private Secretary, 

Baron Ephraim Cohen. 

“A subject of the greatest importance which 
concerns you personally," repeated Count Bes- 


226 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

nard, and the fingers that held the letter began 
to tremble. “No, I do not guess! What 
mystery is this ? What can that man wish of 
me with his poor grammar and his commanding 
language ? ” 

He rang the bell nervously, and a servant 
rushed in. 

“A carriage ! Do not expect me soon ! I 
shall not return before night.” 

Then, coming near Marie-Anne, and kissing 
her on the forehead, he added, very gently : 

“As for you, my dear, go to Saint-Valere. I 
cannot accompany you there to-day. Excuse 
me before the Lord. Pray fervently, my daugh- 
ter. Implore Divine mercy for both of us — for 
me, for him — for him especially.” 

“ Him,” was the absent, the child found 
again but, alas ! lost again, the son of his tears 
and of his anger. 


* 


II 

THE SECRETARY OF STATE 



I N those days of absolute, personal, silent 
government, the ministers of the Empire 
were nothing more nor less than simple clerks 
of the Emperor, chosen or rejected according 
to caprice or whim. Favor raised them, disgrace 
caused their fall. The Parliament then — a 
Parliament without a voice — knew them not, 
and was not even expected to know them. 

Most of them, men of merit, excellent 
employes, trained to the duties of administra- 
tion, working for the good of the service and 
knowing how to do it, had not in them, how- 
ever, the least notion of exalted political vir- 
tue. The independence of the mind was totally 
wanting, and, more so, that of the soul. None 
of these “ chief clerks” had the supreme 
quality which alone raises human nature 
and produces great men: character. None 
dared to be himself. Catholics, when the Em- 
peror treated with Catholics ; free-traders, when 
the Sovereign, a friend of Cobden, believed in 
free trade ; at times, helping the cause of the 
“ Nationalists” — for their master, the former 
“Carbonaro ” had been a “ Nationalist ” — the 

(229) 


230 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

only conception of those worshipers of the 
Imperial Idol was “The Napoleonic idea.” 
These two words filled their mouths, and was 
invariably found in the wording of their circu- 
lars ; they were their catechism, their dogma, 
their creed, the cross sent by God to blindly 
adore. They were men of ability certainly ; 
but, in high-class politics, petty devices are not 
real ability. Too much like those courtiers 
who abused Versailles, the new valets at the 
Tuileries had no other conscience but to serve 
well ; anxious to be useful, and at times neces- 
sary ; but above all, agreeable. Never did adula- 
tion, even at the time of Louis XIV show itself 
more shameless than at the time of the second 
Empire. “ Napoleon the Great ! I mean 
ours” one of the ministers would say, and 
another would add : “ Before the genius of the 
second Bonaparte, I remain petrified and dumb!” 
These men exist no longer, and the critics leave 
their memory no rest. Nevertheless they have 
done great things, though not great themselves. 
History will say so, too. But it will say also 
that their detestable flatteries have perverted 
and led to its ruin a noble nature, the strange 
dreamer, the man with a robust intelligence 
and a weak will : Napoleon III. 

But, alas, among the French people, the most 
skeptical and credulous of all peoples, what 
public man will dare say that he has never lied 


THE SECRETARY OF STATE 23 1 

to those in power ! Formerly worshipers of 
kings ; now flatterers of the voters. Our fath- 
ers knew them in the former state ; now we see 
them in their latest guise. 

As they generally worked each one separately 
with the Emperor, those ministers were jealous 
of one another ; but, though divided by envy, a 
common hatred had brought them together : 
the hatred of a colleague, the Secretary of 
State. 

This title was an institution handed down 
from the Great Empire of 1805, an d the bearer 
of it, without holding any specific attributions, 
could aspire to all sorts of political favors. As 
administrator of household expenditures, vice- 
president of the “ family council ” — the Bona- 
parte family council — keeper of the fortune and 
honor of the Napoleons, working privately and 
daily with the Sovereign, and possessor of mys- 
terious secrets, this minister might indeed have 
thought himself Prime Minister, for he was a 
great favorite at the Tuileries. 

He pleased the imperial inmates as the 
trusty confident of the husband’s escapades ; 
and he pleased them again as the comforter of 
the wives’ suspicions. Soon his influence was 
recognized as a power behind the throne. The 
other ministers detested him, but in the way 
they detest in Eastern countries — with lavish 
smiles. 


232 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

In this “ star chamber,” called the Tuiler- 
ies, a few temporary favorites had sought his 
ruin. Then began a strife, discreet but merci- 
less, when each word was an insinuation, each 
reticence a calumny ; when even silence 
wounded. But all to no purpose, the Secretary 
of State came out victorious. At the time of 
which we speak, his mysterious power almost 
dared to show itself openly, and his influence 
was at its height. Being the first at court, he 
thought himself the second in France. The 
public did not know that such a power existed ; 
but in the Imperial circles they knew it but too 
well. As he countersigned all the important 
decrees, this minister took upon himself to ex- 
ercise control over all the high functionaries 
and submitted them to a strict discipline. As 
he had charge of all the governmental relations 
of the Emperor with the different bodies of the 
Empire he tyrannized over the Council of State 
which he thoroughly disliked because it con- 
tained some men who had preserved a little 
pride at that time of universal servility. 
Whether from weakness or helplessness, Ba- 
roche, the president of that body, found it hard 
to be heard at the Tuileries, and allowed the 
Secretary of State full sway, leaving many of 
these councilors to become the victims of his 
malice. 

Among them Count Besnard was the one he 


THE SECRETARY OF STATE 


233 


disliked the most. The Count was too stiff in 
his views of morality, his language too haughty ; 
and, ever since the old magistrate had delivered 
a certain speech to express his surprise at cer- 
tain men and certain things, boldly declaring : 

“ I have had twenty-four years’ experience in 
the practice of law ; but I did not know until 
to-day what a public swindle really was ! ” 

“Your insolence will be punished sooner or 
later, Count Besnard,” his adversary had mut- 
tered under his breath. But the councilor, 
without suspecting, or heeding the coming 
storm, and not knowing how to smile back at 
smiling hatred, went on his honest course. 

A strange government ; a stranger minister. 
He was then a man about sixty years old, pale 
and thin, with a prominent nose, and a face 
framed in grey whiskers, homely but bright 
with intelligence. Bald, but, not being vain of 
his baldness, like “ de Morny,” he covered it 
with a fine black wig. That went against him 
with the ladies, for ivory heads were then in 
fashion, and they speak of a well-known deputy, 
a favorite with the Empress, who, being anxious 
to please, underwent a treatment to lose his 
hair. But what epoch has not its “ style,” or, 
in other words its “ fad ? ” 

Though he was born at Tarbes, that land of 
modern miracles, where the Virgin has such 
strange conversations with little shepherds, he 


234 THE court OF NAPOLEON III 


preferred to be called a Parisian. In fact, he 
was only a Jew ; not a glorious descendant of 
Israel, thoughtful and poetical ; but a Jew of 
the money worshiping kind. A bank had been 
his cradle, his family, his country. 

Neither the Thora nor the Talmud, however, 
had been able to satisfy him. One fine day this 
son of Mammon had preferred the whole Bible 
to the Hebrew portion ; he had chosen the 
Bible according to the Rev. J. S. Ostervald ; 
he had become a Christian, but a Protestant 
Christian, perhaps out of admiration for the 
rich financiers of Geneva, perhaps so as to be 
able to preserve as much as possible of his 
Judaism. But he was no Puritan ; a Huguenot 
according to the times, a religious man, worldly 
wise ; nothing like Guizot, a great deal like 
Fazy, the Geneva democratic tyrant. A man 
of fine manners, amiable in the drawing room, 
and willing to play the gentleman of birth and 
dignity. It was most interesting to watch him 
at the court balls, looking grand in his coat, 
embroidered with gold, and the red ribbon 
thrown across his breast, going from one lady 
to another, whispering and flirting — risking a 
compliment here and there in the hope of an 
adventure ; sometimes he was ill received, but 
never with indignation. 

In the Government service he was another 
person altogether : harsh, dry, short, haughty, 


THE SECRETARY OF STATE 235 

keeping the upper hand over his inferiors, just 
as they overwork the clerks in Jewish counting 
houses. 

As a private individual, he was not above 
reproach, by any means, and his escapades were 
the subject of many a joke behind the scenes; 
but he was kind to his relations. 

As a public man, he had some good qualities : a 
respect for literature, a delicate taste in art, a 
marvelous dexterity in finances. His enemies 
— and they were numerous — denied him any 
virtues, and charged him with all the vices. 
They said he got rich with France’s money; 
this was a lie — he had always been rich ; that 
he was a libertine, because he was gallant ; 
capable of any crime, when he was only ambi- 
tious. He let them talk ; perfectly indifferent 
to criticism, and scathing indeed was his scorn 
of men and their petty calumnies. In short, he 
was a full-fledged skeptic, and reaped the bene- 
fits of his skepticism. 

Nevertheless, this faithless man had an object 
of worship — the Empire ; a god — the Emperor. 
Long before the 2nd of December, 1851, being 
a banker, he had placed a portion of his fortune 
at the disposal of the Prince-President. A risky 
experiment it was, money wildly invested ; but 
a good investment after all, since the lender 
was now, not only Minister of State, but de 
facto Prime Minister. His favor ran high. His 


236 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

titles were many. He wore on his breast dec- 
orations innumerable, and was in receipt of 
250,000 francs yearly salaries. All these para- 
phernalia of ribbons and titles make us smile 
nowadays, as if we were above such things, 
but let the rising generation come. Will its 
criticism of us be any milder? 

After all, he of whom we speak, did some 
good. When he died, towards the last days of 
the Empire, neglected by the Sovereign for 
whom he had dared everything, many mourned 
for him, and long after that, many remembered 
him. History will say of him he was a favored 
and fortunate man — fortunate because of his 
success in life, and his opportune death. 


Ill 

IN THE MINISTER’S PRIVATE 
OFFIGE 












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W HEN Count Besnard entered the lux- 
urious pavilion of the Tuileries, called 
the Carrousel Pavilion, where the Prime Minis- 
ter held his court, the clock of the Palais-Royal 
marked ten o’clock. 

Already the antechamber was full of peti- 
tioners, for it was Friday, an official reception 
day. 

This crowd was a strange mixture of high 
and low beggars. Prefects with fine mustaches, 
stiff magistrates, Members of the Institute, 
priests intriguing for promotion, sculptors and 
painters begging for an order, plenty of jour- 
nalists bringing with them their devotion and 
their debts; a great many theatrical people 
pretty singers, and stately comedians : one as 
brisk and smart as Dorante, the other as majes- 
tic as Agamemnon. Then among those black 
coats and frocks, were to be seen the painted 
faces of ballet-dancers. O ! these well knew 
they would not have to wait long. 

Every one in the expectant multitude, sat 
motionless on the chairs and benches, looking 
at each other ; most of them dumb with anx- 

(239) 


240 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

iety. Slowly in front of them, walked back 
and forth a man with a shining steel chain 
around his neck, an important personage, 
Monsieur Morel, the chief of the ushers. At 
times, he would stop and suavely or severely, 
according to the person addressed, drop a few 
words : 

“ Please have patience, Monsieur le Prefet ; 
His Excellence will receive you certainly. My 
Lord Bishop, the door will open before your 
Grandeur. You are wasting time, my dear sir; 
look at all these people ; you had better go to 
the private secretary. Come, behave, madame ; 
there are priests here.” 

Count Besnard gave his name ; the usher 
wrote it on a loose piece of paper and entered 
the inner room. Almost immediately, he came 
back and called out in loud tones : 

“ The Councilor of State, Count Besnard!” 

With a slow step and vainly trying to look 
unconcerned, this imperial functionary, so 
pompously designated, followed the usher. 
Though he had come last, he went in first. 
What was wanted of him in such a hurry ? 

A double door was thrown open before him. 

In a superb office, draped with velvet of a 
somber hue, the Minister, pale and thin, was 
carelessly sitting in front of his huge desk. 
Count Besnard bowed; the other kept his seat, 
and with a curt gesture motioned him to a chair. 


THE MINISTER’S PRIVATE OFFICE 241 

“ Please be seated, sir.” 

Shocked at such an informal reception, the 
Councilor of State took the chair, and said very 
dryly : 

“ Your Excellency sent for me — what do you 
wish ? ” 

No response. The little man, still stretched 
in his armchair, seemed sunk in meditation ; 
his expression was disagreeable in the extreme, 
his stern eyes looked forbidding. Finally he 
replied : 

“Yes, I sent for you, my poor Monsieur 
Besnard. Mon Dieu ! what a terrible event ! ” 

This familiar language, this condescending 
appellation, wounded the old man. “ My poor 
Monsieur Besnard ! ” He was not accustomed 
to be pitied ; his pride got the best of him, and 
he replied in a reproving tone : 

“A terrible event? Yes, indeed ! However, 
excuse my frankness, such events are becoming 
too frequent. Our people watch no longer, 
neither do they punish any more.” 

By “ our people,” he evidently meant the 
Government. 

The Minister raised his head, and with a 
bitter smile, meeting haughtiness with haughti- 
ness, said : 

“A reprimand, sir? Please spare us! But 
of whom are you speaking ? Of the criminals 
of last night? of the bandits of the Street Le 


242 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

Peletier? I was talking of another criminal; 
of Marcel Besnard, your son.” 

“ My son ? Why is the name of my son 
mixed with this affair?” 

Slowly and heartlessly, the Minister con- 
tinued : 

“ Your son has attempted to assassinate the 
Emperor.” 

“ My — my son ! ” 

And the Count rose excitedly. 

“ You say? I do not understand — no, no, I 
do not understand ! ” 

But soon, with a shrug of the shoulders and 
a scornful smile, he added : 

“Your Excellency must be the victim of 
some cruel practical joke.” 

Unwilling to notice the reply, and accenting 
each word, the Minister proceeded : 

“On the night of the 12th of January, the 
day before yesterday, at a woman's house, a 
certain Princess di Carpegna, your son at- 
tempted to kill the Emperor.” 

The Princess di Carpegna ! Marcel’s father 
fell back on his chair. He had turned pain- 
fully white ; his heart beat violently ; out of 
his contracted throat but one word could find 
its way : 

“Absurd ! Absurd ! ” 

The other man did not even appear to notice 
the anguish of the old man, but coolly went on : 


THE MINISTER’S PRIVATE OFFICE 243 

“ Absurd; so it is! True, nevertheless; a 
great deal too true ! You had better read this 
yourself. Here is the report of the prelimin- 
ary examination of your son.” 

The Minister took some papers from his desk 
and handed them to the Count, who pushed 
them away. 

“ No, no ; it is useless ! He did not do it ! It 
cannot be Marcel ! ” 

“ Well ! my poor sir, it will be better for you 
then to ask the culprit himself. He is here ; 
they will bring him to us.” 

The Minister rang a bell, and immediately a 
dapper little man, the private secretary, entered 
the room. 

“ Baron Ephraim, let them bring in Marcel 
Besnard. But use the greatest discretion ! 
You possess, sir, a state secret of dreadful 
import.” 

The young man with the curly hair, a Baron 
in Israel, bowed humbly and retired. 

A deadly silence now reigned between these 
two imperial functionaries. His Excellency 
sat calmly waiting, with folded arms, while the 
old Councilor of State bowed his head and 
leaned heavily on his cane. At times a deep 
sigh escaped him and was the only sound in 
this solemn moment, except the monotonous 
ticking of a wooden clock, and the crackling 
of the flames in the fireplace. At last a por- 


244 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

tiere was raised and Marcel entered. A police- 
man accompanied him. 

Pale and wretched, his eyelids red for want of 
sleep, his garments disorderly, his wrists bear- 
ing the marks of fetters, the young man looked 
like a malefactor who had already received the 
first caresses of dread Justice. When he saw 
his father, he turned faint. O ! the unfortunate 
father! He, habitually, so full of a noble 
pride, how crushed he now looked with shame 
and despair in his eyes! Father, oh, father! 
And the son turned aside. 

Standing in the middle of the room, he tried 
to put on a brave face. Through the strange 
sharpness of vision brought on by fever, he 
could see distinctly all the details of the sur- 
roundings, the bright ceiling, the awkward pat- 
tern and big flowers of the furniture ; in a 
panel, the full-length portrait of Cardinal de 
Richelieu. What threatening looks it seemed 
to cast on him, this bloody Eminence, so pale 
in his purple robes ! And, under this terrible 
image he saw the deceitful face of the Prime 
Minister. 

A voice, that of Count Brutus, drew him 
from his lethargy. The old man had straight- 
ened himself up now, his head was erect, his 
looks stern. He began the interrogation. 

“ You must know, sir, of what they accuse 
you.’' 


THE MINISTER’S PRIVATE OFFICE 245 

Without any hesitation, Marcel answered : 

“ I know but one thing — I have tried to kill.” 
“ To kill! the Emperor!” 

“ I did not know the Emperor stood before 


He stopped and added lower: 

“ But, I must say — even knowing it, I would 
have — — ” 

He stopped again, and suddenly, in a tone 
of utter desperation, he cried out : 

“ Pity, father! Pity! I was crazy — I was 
mad with love !” 

A terrible look swept over the face of the 
old man as he bowed his head in silence. One 
could hear outside the confused murmur of a 
great city, and just then a noise of fife and 
drum was louder than the rest ; it was a regi- 
ment of Grenadiers, in the Carrousel Square, 
relieving the sentries all over the Tuileries. 

The Minister, during this time, was look- 
ing over some papers. Now in his turn he 
spoke : 

“ Marcel Besnard, the examination — Oh ! a 
very superficial one — accuses you of premedita- 
tion and conspiracy ” 

“ It is wrong.” 

“ I hope so, for your sake. However, you 
must acknowledge that the Princess di Carpeg- 
na had managed to bring you and some 
Mazzinian conspirators together. One of the 


246 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

rascals, who was arrested this morning, has 
solemnly declared it was so. Do not deny it ; 
the fact is indisputable. Somebody saw you 
going in one of their dens in Montmartre ; the 
janitor of the building has given your descrip- 
tion. Besides, what could that woman mean 
when she cried out, speaking of you : ‘ This 
man is my lover, and I am his accomplice ! ’ Is 
not that clear enough ? A great deal too clear ! 
Silence, I pray, let me finish— you must have 
surely known who this pretended Princess 
really was — No? It is not likely. This same 
Italian friend of the lady has just told us about 
her, a disreputable woman well known on the 
London streets, the Rosina Savelli, a ” 

Count Besnard uttered a cry of anguish, 
and said : 

“ Savelli ! Her name is Savelli ! ” 

“Yes, the daughter of a rebel in the Var in- 
surrection ; he whom his brethren and friends 
call ” 

The Minister stopped short : the remem- 
brances of the bloody repression in the South 
were crowding in his mind. He did not dare 
to finish his sentence. 

“ Go on, sir,” cried the Count, in a com- 
manding voice, “he whom they call 4 the Mar- 
tyr shot twice!' Yes, twice tortured! and 
that by me ! Oh ! my God ! Living Justice ! 
God! God!” 


THE MINISTER’S PRIVATE OFFICE 247 

Then hiding his face in his hands, he wept. 
The Minister motioned to the policeman : 

“Take back your prisoner; but remain in 
the next room and await my orders.” 

The policeman pushed Marcel before him, 
for he was petrified by the revelation he had 
just heard, and the two went out. 

Again the Prime Minister and the Count 
were alone ; again face to face. 

A few minutes elapsed, slow and silent. 

Afar the music of the regiment had played 
the tune of the Reine Hortense ; soon it began 
the tune of former victories : Veillons au Salut 
de 1 Empire. Suddenly a loud acclamation 
rung all over the Carrousel ; the Emperor had 
just appeared on the balcony of the palace. 

On hearing this, the Minister left his arm- 
chair, and approaching Marcel’s father : 

“ You hear, sir ? What enthusiasm ! What 
cries of joy ! No one to-day would dare say 
that the silence of the people is the lesson of 
kings. The Empire is henceforth indestruct- 
ible.” 

He looked for a moment at the mute old 
man ; then, in a gentle tone, full of compassion, 
he added : “ Have courage ! The Emperor, 

my dear Count, esteems and loves you ; and 
we, we have entire confidence in your loyalty.” 

“ My dear Count ! ” how condescending all 
of a sudden. 


248 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


His Excellency waited awhile, and then, 
still more affable, said : 

“ Monsieur Besnard, the State Council is 
going to meet presently for an extraordinary 
session. You shall be present, I suppose?” 

“ I ? — I ? — ” stammered the unfortunate man. 
“ No ! I belong no longer to that body, and I 
now tender my resignation to you.” 

“ What folly ! We refuse to accept it ! ” 

“ But,” replied the Count with unutterable 
bitterness, “ I cannot remain a Councilor of the 
Empire, when my son is an assassin of the 
Emperor ! ” 

“ We refuse your resignation ! France needs 
your talents. So, you see, it is settled, you 
will be there. The Ministers will all be pres- 
ent, and I shall be there also. We expect, gen- 
tlemen of the Council, to submit to you a very 
important bill, a special law to provide for the 
general security. It is proper that, in to-day’s 
address which the Council is to send to the 
Sovereign, this body should ask for this law of 
repression. To take such a step would be to 
its credit ; it would give us an assurance of its 
devotion and would produce an excellent 
moral effect at large. We must do away with 
the anarchists and criminal disturbers! You 
must join with us in asking for all those detest- 
able citizens to be proclaimed outlaws. This 
includes, of course, the men of 1848, the 


THE MINISTER’S PRIVATE OFFICE 249 

former reds ; it is an illegal measure, no doubt 
— being retroactive — but all the same, it is just 
and necessary.” 

“ How can it be just, being illegal ? ” timidly 
asked Count Besnard. 

But the Minister, still smiling his peculiar 
smile, went on : 

“ Yes, I know ! You keep up your old stan- 
dard of judicial honor ! You protest ; you rebel ! 
Very respectable scruples, I know; but let me 
proceed. The legislative bodies will vote the 
proposed bill with enthusiasm. But you, gen- 
tlemen of the State Council? You have be- 
come lately somewhat rebellious opponents of 
the most protective measures ; come, we know 
you by heart. Some of your troublesome col- 
leagues will make a fuss, cry tyranny, and, per- 
haps, prevent our projects from succeeding. 
You, my dear friend, you will vote this law. 
Better still, your eloquence has great weight in 
the Council. Your colleagues, those admirers 
of principles and high-flown theories, willingly 
give up to you ; you are besides — do not deny 
it — the leader of a little opposition, dangerous 
to us, and still more so to yourselves. So to- 
day, in a few hours, you must speak. Do not 
say No ! You must speak, sir ! ” 

The Count slowly raised his head. 

“And what about my conscience?” mur- 
mured he. 


250 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

With a familiar gesture, the Minister placed 
his hand on the Count’s shoulder. 

“Your conscience, my dear sir? It will 
understand readily that you are a father, that 
your son implores, and that France com- 
mands.” 

The face of the old man turned purple with 
shame, his eyes flashed, and his lips expressed 
boundless scorn. But, rising suddenly, and 
humbly bowing, he said : 

“ My conscience has understood you too 
well, Sir. I shall speak in favor of your law. ” 


IV 

THE MINISTER’S KINDNESS 








































































































































W HEN the door was closed behind the 
Count, the Prime Minister resumed his 
seat. The smile had disappeared from his face, 
the man was himself again, uneasy and 
anxious. 

For a little while he seemed to be lost in 
thought : his forehead was covered with per- 
spiration, his body twitched nervously, and 
revealed the agitation of his mind ; soon he 
got up and walked to and fro uneasily. Now 
and then he stopped before a picture — the red 
one — that of Armand du Plessis, Cardinal de 
Richelieu ; and looked at it intently. 

The contemplation of this great man of 
“ probity without scruples ” probably quieted 
him, for he went back to his chair and rang for 
Baron Ephraim. 

“ Send in Monsieur Marcel Besnard, and 
dismiss the policeman who accompanies him. 
One more word. Here is a letter for the Sec- 
retary of the Interior ; take it to him yourself. 
Tell him I answer for everything, but that I 
must be left to do as I think best ! I need 
twenty-four hours. I will be responsible ! ” 

(253) 


254 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

He held out the confidential message to the 
dainty little Baron, who went out to fulfill his 
instructions. 

Alone once more, the Minister’s agitation re- 
turned ; he dropped his brow between his 
hands ; he was actually trembling under the 
strain of his emotion. 

The noise of an opening door made him 
raise his head ; Marcel Besnard had entered. 

A few seconds elapsed in silence. 

The Minister looked sternly at the young 
man, who was timidly and anxiously waiting 
for an interrogation. 

Finally, with a dramatic gesture, he said : 

“You are free, Besnard.” 

Incredulous astonishment appeared on Mar- 
cel’s face ; the other went on : 

“ I say, you are free. Do you hear me ? ” 

His voice was harsh, his face had resumed its 
unfeeling mask. He continued : 

“Now that you are free, what do you expect 
to do?” 

“ Whatever I am told.” 

“ This is as it should be. However, under- 
stand me aright. I act on my own responsi- 
bility ; the Public Prosecutor has not given up 
the affair ; to-morrow, to-day, he may have you 
arrested again. Do you understand? No, I 
see you do not. I will try to be clearer. You, 
the son of a very high Imperial functionary, 


THE MINISTER’S KINDNESS 


255 


you cannot, you must not be seen sitting in 
the pen of the common criminals. What are 
your intentions then ? ” 

“To leave the country.” 

“A very poor plan. They will ask for your 
extradition. You have not understood me yet, 
it seems. Listen further — Your name and title 
are Monsieur le Vicomte Besnard ; you have a 
position in the Council of State, and your 
father occupies a high office in the Empire. 
You must not be prosecuted, even in your 
absence. Am I clear enough, now?” 

He waited for the answer. Both men were 
looking at each other in a dreadful silence, 
both very pale. And the time was flying ; 
soon it would be twelve o’clock ; at one, pre- 
cisely, there was to be a meeting of the Council 
of Ministers at the Tuileries. 

“Well, I §pe ; you will not understand,” 
cried the Minister rudely ; “ I thought you were 
intelligent, and they say you are brave. What 
you have to do, the only thing you have to do 
— is — to disappear.” 

At the blow of this fearful command Marcel 
shuddered ; he walked straight up to his in- 
sulter, and leaning towards him, said : 

“ So, you require me, sir, to kill myself? ” 

His Excellency remained immovable. 

“ Oh ! ” he said at last, speaking very slowly, 


256 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

“ this is a very harsh word — still, as you please 
— I said simply, disappear.” 

“ Disappear ” — and Marcel smiled bitterly. 
“ Be it so, then ; let the word stand — I under- 
stand now.” 

He took a step backward, crossed his arms ; 
and in his turn questioned : 

“And the Princess Carpegna, what becomes 
of her? ” 

“ That woman has left France.” 

Marcel Besnard laughed nervously : 

“ O ! that’s Imperial clemency! I understand 
again ! All right ! Now the son of that very 
high functionary is ready to die.” 

At that moment, the clock on the mantel- 
piece was heard ; it was striking twelve. The 
Minister pointed to it. 

“ The disappearance will be secret, will it 
not ? Especially avoid family scenes : spare 
your father. Twelve o’clock ! Monsieur le 
Vicomte Besnard, you have twenty-four hours 
before you.” 

He rose, to cut short the conversation, and, 
with the same theatrical gesture, he added : 

“ I have your word ; you are free.” 

The son of Count Brutus bowed, and slowly 
retired. 

When the velvet portiere had dropped and 
restored solitude and quiet around him, the 
Minister now paler than ever, sank on a sofa. 


THE MINISTER’S KINDNESS 


257 


“ Horrible,” he muttered, “ heinous, per- 
haps ! but I save the Empire from scandal, and 
what matters a life more or less ! ” 


17 



THE CHRIST IN NOTRE DAME 




















































/ 

\ 




















« 










T HE crowd which had just filled the court- 
yard of the Carrousel, had scattered. 
The military parade was over ; no more Gren- 
adiers marching and keeping step with the 
balancing of their high fur caps ; no more 
music and beating of drums ; of course, no 
more enthusiastic loafers and policemen ; all 
the “ Long live the Emperor !” had ceased. 
Alone in the vast yard of the Tuileries, on the 
right and left of the Arc de Triumph, were 
the two sentries immovable on their horses, 
draped in their showy red cloaks. The north 
wind was blowing ; under the bluish-gray sky, 
the cold was dry, parching the faces of the 
passers-by. 

Count Besnard had now reached the Royal 
bridge. Like a body unconscious of its acts, 
of the hour or of the distance, he was mechan- 
ically wending his steps towards the Palace of 
the State Council ; but at the corner of the 
Pavilion of Flora he stopped short ; the thought 
of Self had come back. 

Yes, certainly, he was to speak to-day, defend 
the ministerial law, and, with the price of his 

(261) 


262 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


honor, perhaps save his child ; but the moment 
of the most cruel torture had not come yet. 
He had three hours yet to be himself ! Quickly, 
Count Besnard turned back and hurried along. 
He was walking ahead, at random, along the 
quays, with listless eyes fixed on the greenish 
water of the Seine. Having taken no nourish- 
ment since the day before, the effort covered 
him with perspiration, and in spite of the icy 
cold air of the river, he felt a sensation of ex- 
treme heat. His head ached as well as his 
heart. But he kept on, speaking to himself ; 
and the people that passed him turned around 
and smiled. Sometimes a cry of anger would 
escape his lips, and he would say : “ The 
wretch ! ” but soon his voice would soften, and 
he would say : “ The unfortunate ! ” 

The vibrations of a clock aroused him from 
this kind of somnambulism. He was now op- 
posite the City Hall, and the clock was striking 
twelve. Immediately the silvery tones fell 
from the St. Gervais steeple ; then again, slower 
and more solemn, the bell of St. Severin an- 
swered, and the Angelas was repeated from one 
parish to another. At that moment the re- 
ligious soul of Paris seemed with one impulse 
to rise in the space filled with the Eternal. 

Involuntarily carried away, the Count Bes- 
nard was listening to the Ave Maria from all 
those bells. A scruple had just assailed his 


THE CHRIST IN NOTRE DAME 263 

conscience. What ! He was suffering and he 
was not praying. To the right, above the 
houses bordering the river, he could see the 
proud profile of Notre Dame, with its towers 
rising towards the sky, and its austere nave 
spreading its amplitude ; a jewel, a symbol, a 
whole prayer in stone. And gently, gravely, 
the Angelus from the Cathedral Church, was 
inviting him in. “ Sane t a Maria , ora pro no- 
bis! ” O ! yes, Comforter, in a day of such 
affliction, it is sweet to cry to Thee ! 

The unfortunate father hurried towards the 
sanctuary, answering the divine call, and soon 
reached the square, at that time so picturesque, 
where, even to-day, the pious thought of past 
ages reveals itself in a sublime manner. The 
hospital of the Hotel Dieu is there under the 
shadow of Notre Dame, the house of suffering 
under the mantle of the Mother of Suffer- 
ings. 

Count Besnard entered the portal of the 
Zodiac, one of the four gates so wonderfully 
“ barred ” by the sculptured devil. 

At that hour of the day, the church was al- 
most deserted ; under the stained glass of the 
tall windows, the center nave spread its soli- 
tude and immensity, while, behind the shadow 
of the great pillars, the aisles were dark. The 
organs kept silent, the priests had retired ; not 
a sound to be heard, It was really, at that 


264 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

moment, the “ Domus Dei” the mysterious 
dwelling of the Absolute, full of mystery. 

In that obscurity, in that vast silence that 
seemed like the commencement and end of all 
terrestrial things, how much more the Immi- 
nent, the Infinite, the Never and the Always, 
the Eternal Now, must have been felt evoking 
the true Spirit of Worship, than in the midst of 
human hymns so soon hushed, and the light of 
candles so quickly put out. 

In the northern aisle, towards which Count 
Besnard turned to go, the iron gates of the 
side chapel were closed. One of them, how- 
ever, was partly open, and he stepped in and 
sat down before the altar. At least, he thought, 
no one will come in here and disturb my de- 
votions. 

At first he did not notice in the shadow, a 
strange object resting against the wall. It was 
a gigantic crucifix, a work of the XII. century, 
both roughly hewn and grandly expressed. 
With unskilled fingers, the admirable maker of 
this figure, had tried to put in the wood all the 
ardor, all the tenderness, all the dread, all the 
mysticism of his Christian faith. He had 
chosen the moment, when the Son of God, 
having become truly a man through suffering, 
utters towards His Father His cry of human des- 
pair — the terrible “ Lama Sabachthani ” — “ Why 
hast thou forsaken me?” The legs and the 


THE CHRIST IN NOTRE DAME 265 


arms were twisted, the convulsed breast showed 
the thin skeleton of the thorax ; from the fore- 
head crowned with thorns, and from the pierced 
sides, blood dropped down like tears ; the head 
had drooped on the shoulder, in horrible agony ; 
the mouth partly open seemed to smile. An- 
other moment, and the holy breath was going 
to pass from Calvary, over Jerusalem, the Gen- 
tiles, and the world. The “ Consummatum est ” 
would be accomplished. By the livid light of 
the stained glass window, this image was fright- 
ful to look at ! Count Besnard had not yet seen 
it. Broken down with fatigue and shivering 
with fever, he fell heavily on a chair, his back 
turned to the image, apparently deprived of 
all sensation of body and mind, his soul in a 
strange lethargy. A confused noise of steps 
and chants startled him at last. 

Over there in the northern transept, they 
were having a funeral ; a very modest one ; 
nothing but a low mass in a side chapel, no organ 
playing ; a simple psalm only, mumbled by the 
priest, and his one assistant ; the humble funeral 
of an humble one of this world. 

From where he sat, the Count could not see 
anything, but he understood, however. An- 
other wretch out of his misery ! He knelt 
down, remembering that he came in to pray. 
But his prayer was slow and painful ; it did not 
come from his heart, “Pater noster, fiat volun- 


266 


THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


tas tua Oh ! How hard Thy will, Lord, Thou 
who triest so severely an old man and a father. 

Soon, above the murmurs of the officiating 
priest arose the chanted psalms. They were 
rendering the formidable prose, the canticle of 
fright, the Dies irce , and the kneeling soul of 
the Count heard and translated : “Day of 
anger, day of days ! Death has spread its 
standard ; this century has crumbled into dust.” 

But little by little, a strange hallucination 
took possession of the listening man-^-he 
thought he was present at his own funeral ; he, 
who had been so long judge of men, was 
placed himself in judgment ; he was appearing 
before the Incorruptible, he was pleading his 
own cause. 

The chanting voices went on lamenting : 
'“Oh, unfortunate, what shall I answer? What 
will my defense be at that hour when even 
the just will be in agony? ” 

And he answered : 

“ Behold ! I have kept Thy commandments ; 
I have practiced abstinence, mortified the flesh 
by fasting. Every morning I have devotedly 
heard mass, and, several times a year, I have 
received the holy sacrament of communion. I 
am a Christian ! Why then, dost Thou so harsh- 
ly punish the servant of Thy law? ” 

And again : “ I have always been honest 

and conscientious. Never did I take into con- 


THE CHRIST IN NOTRE DAME 267 


sideration the person of the criminal, but the 
crime. I remember one day when I called for 
a sentence to be passed upon a rich murderer; 
the family of the criminal dared to offer me a 
large sum of money if I would find some ex- 
tenuating circumstances — the head of the 
murderer fell. 

“ I remember also that in prosecuting a 
fraudulent bankrupt, a relation of the man, an 
influential minister, tried to make me condone 
the crime — the thief went to the galleys. I am 
very poor in this world’s goods ! Why, then, 
dost thou so harshly punish an honest man?” 

Suddenly he shuddered. An ironical voice — 
where did it come from ? — had whispered to him, 
asking : 

“ What of Savelli ? ” 

The Count turned quickly around, and there 
against the wall, his gaze met the crucified God 
smiling — He who came into the world, not to 
bring peace, but the sword. 

With his eyes riveted to the spot, the dreamer 
looked at this formidable image ; then, struck 
with terror, he fell face forward to the floor, as 
did those seraphic monks who had reached the 
seventh degree of ecstasy, when the veil which 
hid the Adonai was torn open before them. Now 
the prayer which was burning like lava flew from 
his lips. 

“ Yes, yes ; thou art the Equitable, the God 


268 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


of Truth who detests ‘ whited sepulchers ’ and 
Pharisaic consciences ! Savelli ! The blood of 
that one trial stains yet my magisterial gown ; 
it is on my hands, all over me ! It drowns me, 
it smothers me ! Savelli ! I have received the 
price of that death, and my reward is still with 
me — pecunia mea mecum . I am a Councilor of 
State! Savelli! Oh! mysterious justice, im- 
placable patience of Eternity! It is the 
daughter of that man who kills my child ! She 
embodies the law of Talion, she comes as thine 
avenger ! God ! God ! God ! ” 

He raised his head, and stretched his hands 
towards the cross. 

“ Immanent, Immanent, thou chastiseth me 
keenly ! But thou art right ! Thou art right ! For 
my soul is vile, and my heart cowardly. Again, I 
have committed prevarication ; I have ignored 
my conscience. I have promised this dishonest 
Minister to defend his law ; an infamous law, 
which is to strike so many innocent ones ; a 
desperate law, which will cause many a father 
like me to shed bitter tears. Oh, my Lord, say, 
oh, say ! What must I do? ” 

Then by the pale light of the stained glass 
window he thought he saw the angry smile 
change into a kindly one, and there, before him, 
there he saw the sculptured Christ stretching 
forth his head, as if to allow the words of his 
command to pass out. 


THE CHRIST IN NOTRE DAME 269 

“ Thy duty ! ” ordered the silent voice. 

“ My duty ? ” gasped the poor soul, in unutter- 
able distress. “And Marcel, my poor child ? ” 
But Christ on the crucifix, still gentle and 
enigmatic : 

“Thy whole duty, thy expiatory duty, so 
that I may be able to give thee, my friend — to 
give thee, at the last, the heavenly kiss of 

peace.” 



VI 

THE COUNCIL OF STATE 


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C ERTAINLY, the Council of State of the 
Second Empire was a grand assembly ; 
the equal, indeed, of its elder, the author of 
the civil Code and the Concordat. Like it, it 
worked hard, it was well trained in all its duties, 
honest, honorable and highly intelligent. The 
magistrates in its bosom were numerous, chosen 
from the Court of Appeals, the 61ite among the 
first presidents and public prosecutors, a few 
prefects, renowned engineers, illustrious sol- 
diers, and even eight members of the Institute. 

They used to say then — and rightly — that the 
soul of France had passed wholly into this 
Council. And, in fact, it accomplished great 
things very simply. It worked hard, and its 
powerful brain brought forth wonderful results. 
All the decrees, all the various and minute 
regulations in the administration which made 
Imperial France so rich — perhaps too rich — 
were its work. Our codes, altered according to 
the progressive evolution of morals ; truths of 
political economy introduced in our laws ; the 
agreement between labor and capital ; the hard- 
ships of the working people alleviated, their 
is (373) 


274 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

poor protected at last ; and, at the same time, 
admirable measures of public usefulness inau- 
gurated : the national fortune increased, becom- 
ing almost opulence ; eighteen thousand miles 
of railroads opened through the land ; the ports 
of Marseilles, Havre, Bordeaux and Brest en- 
larged ; the pier of Cherbourg completed when 
six preceding governments had failed to do it ; 
Saint Nazaire harbor growing entirely out of 
the sands of the Loire ; elsewhere, useless land 
made fruitful, covered with forests and harvests ; 
fevers eradicated ; our cities rebuilt or made 
healthful — marvelous cities they are now : this 
is what those men of the Council of State have 
accomplished, such men as Michel Chevalier, 
Leplay, Bonjean, Vuitry, Forcade, Herman, 
Cornudet, Franqueville, Genteur, Conti, Corme- 
nin, Vuillefroy and one other — a beloved dead, 
the only one I dare not name, the only one I 
cannot name — those are now simple, but piously 
preserved memories, for I have named only those 
who are at rest forever. Alas ! why has France 
already forgotten even the names of those pas- 
sionately dutiful, truly great men, when she is 
so prodigal of praises for the vain rhetoric and 
the hollow pomposity of so many so-called ora- 
tors ? Is it because they have tried to do 
nothing but what was right ? Yes, for eighteen 
years they have been the very soul of France ; 
they have embodied her courage and her hon- 


THE COUNCIL OF STATE 275 

esty. Alone, in the vast silence of the whole 
nation, they have dared to raise their voices, 
but it was only to be useful; and it was done 
without any personal consideration, without 
theatrical declamations, without courting a de- 
grading popularity, without any other applause 
than that of their consciences. They were, 
indeed, honest men! 

It was about three o’clock when the Count, 
coming out of his prolonged and feverish ec- 
stacy, came out of Notre Dame. Still numb 
from his mystic dream, he stepped into a car- 
riage and drove to the Palace d’Orsay. Already 
the hall was full of people and each one at his 
post, from the Ministers to the reading clerks. 

This hall, afterwards destroyed by the flames 
of the Commune, occupied nearly all the front 
of the palace looking toward the Seine. It 
formed a rectangular space, and might have 
contained about two hundred seats. Proud 
white marble columns with gilded bronze capi- 
tals decorated it, but the whole aspect was 
rather severe. 

On the walls, panels served as frames for 
pictures. First, and overlooking the assembly, 
was a famous painting by Hippolyte Flandrin 
— his “ Napoleon Legislator .” Standing on the 
highest steps of the Imperial throne, his fore- 
head crowned with laurels, draped in purple 


276 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


with golden bees, the pale Caesar, solemnly 
holding it with both hands, was presenting to 
France the table of the new laws for new times 
— his “ Code Napoleon.” On the right and the 
left were portraits of his advisers: the great 
Jurists of the year 12 — Cambaceres, Portalis, 
Tronchet, Merlin, Regnault de Saint-Jean-d’ 
Angely. Thus the Councils of both Empires 
found themselves face to face. Opposite, there 
was a platform for the Presidential chair, and 
those of the Ministers ; in front of this platform 
were the raised seats of the Councilors of 
State ; and on both sides were more modest 
chairs for officials of less importance. No trib- 
une ; each spoke from his seat. Such is the 
restraint on eloquence in wise England, so that 
simplicity and good faith be preserved. So, in 
that blessed land of liberty, we never see those 
popular insanities brought about by sonorous 
words and theatrical gestures. 

Foreseeing a long debate, the hall was lighted 
up and the curtains drawn ; but the ceiling was 
so high and the place so large that it was 
rather dark, notwithstanding all the lamps. 
The meeting had not begun, and an ill-con- 
cealed agitation filled the hall with murmurs, 
the. older Councilors looking very much per- 
turbed and whispering audibly. The others 
formed groups and discussed the events. They 
were talking of the outrage in the Street Le 


THE COUNCIL OF STATE 277 

Peletier, of the number of Frenchmen that had 
been wounded by Italian bombs ; wonder- 
ing what that mysterious law of general safety 
was to be ; some even repeating the smart re- 
mark of one of the Ministers, who had said : 
“ We must at last muzzle the beast ! ” But 
this “ Beast ” whose mouth they wanted to 
close, and whose teeth they wanted to break, 
what was it? Was it France, and its last 
liberties ? 

From the platform, the President now pro- 
nounced the ordinary formula : “ Gentlemen, 

the meeting is open,” and began his speech at 
once. 

Monsieur Baroche was a fine speaker, with an 
imposing head, serious looking whiskers and an 
august baldness. A former Public Prosecutor, 
he had preserved from his judiciary functions, 
very solemn gestures, and a prolific language, 
without any real eloquence. He could speak 
of anything, for anything, against anything. 
Always warming up and carried away, always 
convinced ; a brilliant barrister. So he spoke 
that day, growing impressive, vehement, insult- 
ing men and things; he solemnly begged of 
his colleagues to take their part in the misfor- 
tunes of the country. The Council of State 
was going to send an address to the Emperor ; 
but it must be full of love and also full of hate; 
it must dare to do violence to the too kind 


27B THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

sovereign, require of him strong measures 
against political crimes, their authors and ac- 
complices ; in short it must propose a law of 
general safety. 

This superb indignation being visibly over- 
done, the Keeper of the Seals spoke to place 
things in their right light. Much less flowery 
than the President, the Minister of Justice, a 
small man with a sharp and cutting voice, 
analyzed briefly the ten articles of the pro- 
jected law, which was to be discussed later. A 
terrible law, one of those leges horrendi car- 
minis, as the Latin jurists would have called it ! 

Several of the measures were really atrocious. 
Through a monstrous retroaction, they made 
outlaws of those who seven years before had 
opposed the establishment of the Empire, and 
gave them up entirely to the police. A sim- 
ple order from a Minister was enough to 
exile them away from their country, and even 
to imprison them for an unlimited period and 
without trial. So the hard road to exile was 
open again ; again the Cemetery of Lambessa 
was to be filled with the unfortunate. The 
“ Beast ” which they wanted to muzzle, was 
France herself. O, France, the old land of 
Gaul, too long trodden by the Roman Caesars, 
why so much fratricidal hatred in the hearts of 
thy children ? Why always and always this 
insane persecution among thy sons? O, you 


THE COUNCIL OF STATE 279 

creators of revolutionary Tribunals, High 
Courts of Justice, etc., etc. Monarchy, Em- 
pire of Republic — will you all never bear in 
history any other name than tyranny ! 

The analysis of the projected law was re- 
ceived with an icy respect. Soon, however, 
rumors went from seat to seat: “The Govern- 
ment wanted to take the Council by surprise ! 
The law would be unconstitutional ! It was 
a work of vengeance, not of justice ! ” Then 
a profound silence of expectation. Who would 
dare to speak ? 

At that moment the Secretary of State 
leaned towards the President of the Council, 
who then immediately addressed the assembly: 

“ Gentlemen, does some one wish to speak 
upon the question at issue ?”• 

Then, in the midst of a profound silence, a 
voice was heard : 

“ I do ! ” 

And Count Brutus Besnard rose. 


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VII 


THE KISS OF PEACE 


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H AVING entered a few moments before the 
beginning of the session, Count Besnard, 
avoiding his colleagues, had gone straight to 
his usual place, in the third row, to the right of 
the President. There, crossing his arms and 
closing his eyes, he appeared to all to be slum- 
bering. They knew he was sick, full of melan- 
choly, rather strange in his ways ; they had 
respected his solitude. 

He was watching, though, with both mind 
and heart, Under the veil formed by his eye- 
lids he could see. He could see former days : 
his Marcel a little child, who, by the blonde 
head of his sister, leaned his brunette head over 
the Gospel in which they were learning to pray 
and read. “ That word, Marcel, is the sweet 
name of Jesus/’ “ Father, the God of little 
children, is He not?” “ Yes, He who rewards 
parents by uniting them some day and forever 
to their beloved ones.” “ Father, is this Para- 
dise?” 

And again another vision arose : time had 
flown so rapidly ; his wee baby had grown to 

(2S3) 


284 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


manhood, into a young man of proud and noble 
mein, who was kneeling and said : 

“ To-day, I am going to fight for your honor ; 
bless me, father.” Then, with a sob, a cry 
mounted to the son’s lips. “ Pardon me, father, 
I was insane. I loved ! Father!” In joy, as 
in pain, the same appellation, always and al- 
ways : “ Father.” Ah! the unfortunate — the 

poor beloved child ! And two big tears ran 
down the immovable cheeks of the old man. 

Suddenly the vision disappeared ; the meet- 
ing had been called to order. The Count 
opened his eyes and listened attentively to the 
speeches. It was with a strong voice that he 
uttered his : “ I do ! ” which was followed by 

a prolonged murmur. 

The whole assembly had turned towards him. 
Every one was looking at him with a painful 
surprise. And he, standing up but leaning with 
both hands on his desk, was so bent and so 
weak that they thought he was going to faint. 
Strange emotions shook him at times, and in 
the dim light of the lamps his face looked per- 
fectly white. 

He began to speak in a low tone ; but, little 
by little, his enunciation became clearer, his 
voice stronger, and finally it filled the whole 
hall. 

“ We have been called together for a special 
purpose, gentlemen, and here we are. Now, 


THE KISS OF PEACE 


285 


what is wanted of us ? An admiration without 
reserve, or some advice? Applause, or discus- 
sion ? J ust now our President has dared to say, 
‘Approve first ; by and by you shall discuss/ 
An imprudent speech — a strange invitation; and 
you have already declined it by your silence. 
But a silent protest is not enough for your 
honor. We are the advisors of the Empire ; its 
good name is in peril ; our cry, Halt ! ought to 
go up to the Emperor. We ought not to com- 
mit the crime of complacency, and the grandeur 
of an assembly is shown in the manner it per- 
forms its duty. Gentlemen, let us do our 
duty ! ” 

This solemn beginning was received with a 
growing agitation around the President ; the 
Secretary of State alone trying to smilingly 
chat with his neighbor, as if absolutely uncon- 
cerned. 

Count Besnard continued : 

“ So, then, they expect us to vote a law which 
they call one of general safety ? They tell us 
France is ill — let us bleed her at the four limbs; 
gangrene is gaining ground ; we, the pitiless 
doctors, must cut and slash without mercy ! 
Gentlemen, in the days of Prairial in the second 
year of the Republic, so spake Robespierre ” 

Some one interrupted him. 

“ No such comparisons, sir! ” 

The Count looked at the man who addressed 


286 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


him so ; it was one of the Ministers ; then turn- 
ing towards the platform where the members 
of the Government sat together: 

“Yes, I understand,” he said, “such a name 
sounds ill to your ears ; let us look for some 
other, then. Two regimes that had their 
years of power have inspired you it seems, serv- 
ing you as models, instead of lessons. Those 
were the inventors of exceptional laws, of piti- 
less proscriptions, the workers of vengeance 
and not of justice. In 1640 they were called 
the Stuarts — they disappeared; in 1815 their 
name was Bourbon — where are they now? It 
is well that they should have been smitten 
thus, because human blood is a too fruitful dew, 
a seed of hatred without pardon, of crimes 
without remorse ! And then, it cries up to 
God, and God listens to it. Prynne is nailed 
to the post — but in his turn Charles I. mounts 
the scaffold ! Marshal Ney falls pierced with 
bullets — and behold, Louvel rises armed with a 
knife ! You have struck, you shall be stricken ; 
you have caused tears to flow, you also shall 
have to shed tears. You have called together 
the Prevotal Courts, you have convened the 
Vincennes Court-martial. The retaliation in 
your case shall be named : Goritz ; in yours, 
Saint Helena! Pattens quia ceternus . And we, 
gentlemen, have we been truly just ? No ! In 
the melee of the second of December, what 


THE KISS OF PEACE 


287 


use we have made of victory ! What sad ad- 
vantage we have taken of our strength ! Un- 
worthy victors, on the night of the battle, have 
we not finished our conquered foes ? Remem- 
ber all the exiles, all the transported ! Re- 
member ” 

“ Remember, sir, your own doings ! ” cried 
an insolent voice. 

The Minister of State had just risen, purple 
with rage. The two men glared at each other. 
Finally lowering his head, 

“ My doings ? ” the Count said, slowly. “ Yes, 
yes, I remember them always — always. For 
the last seven years I have known what remorse 
means ! ” 

The Minister cried out angrily : 

“ Such remorse ought to be hidden in solitude, 
sir ! ” 

This time, the old man straightened up to 
his full height, and with a thundering voice 
replied : 

“You ask for my resignation, Monsieur le 
Minister? You shall not get it. Dismiss me, 
if you dare ! But before that, one word more. 
Formerly, in this very Council of State, a proud 
and honest man, if there ever was one, the Jun- 
ior Portalis, was dismissed by an imperious ges- 
ture of the great Emperor. ‘ Out of here, sir, 
go out ! ’ and he went. He bowed under the 
hand which had carried the flag of Arcole ! But 


288 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 


I, before an insult which comes only from your 
mouth, I raise my head, and remain, and stand 
up to tell you, my colleagues : Reject this law ; 
it is pernicious ! Repulse it ; it is infamous ! ” 

Great confusion pervaded the hall. Every- 
body was interrupting, the meeting losing all 
its usual dignity. Never had such violence dis- 
turbed the independent calm of the Council. 
The President tried in vain to restore order and 
put a stop to such a scandal. So he addressed 
the speaker, saying : 

“ Have you finished, sir ? ” 

Count Besnard, during the confusion, had 
dropped back into his armchair, his eyes closed, 
his arms hanging down, his head bowed as if 
in a swoon. A deathly pallor covered his face 
and revealed a fearful agony; but at these 
words, “ Have you finished ? ” he rose again, 
and, gathering all his waning strength, he said : 

“No! I have not yet said my say! But 
now I no longer address the Council ; it is to 
my Sovereign that I want to appeal. Ah ! 
pity, Sire, pity for yourself, and pity for your 
own blood. History reveals to us a formidable 
truth. In the family of kings, the child, too 
often, suffers for the crimes of his parents! 
Look at the last of the Valois, that miserable 
posterity of Catherine dei Medici, one after the 
other disappearing in imbecility, in insanity, in 
blood ! And again, see in his cell, in the Tern- 


THE KISS OF PEACE 


289 


pie, the expiatory victim of the religious perse- 
cutions perpetrated by his ancestors, and of the 
vices of his great-grandfather, Louis, the Dau- 
phin of France, poor little Capet ! O ! pity, 
Sire, pity for your Prince Imperial ! for the frail 
cradle filled with so much hope, watched over 
with so much love ! He is our child, too, this 
son of France. Pity for him! Fear, lest you 
bring on this beloved head the future wrath of 
the Eternal! He is innocent: do not make 
him responsible ! Do not prepare for us, some 
day, bewilderment and grief ! May he never 
suffer for his father's, may he — — ” 

Suddenly, the old man uttered a shriek ; he 
staggered back, beat the air with his hands, and 
fell down with a crash. His face was frightfully 
convulsed, and a stream of blood ran out of his 
mouth. 

Another outcry, uttered by the assembly, had 
answered his wail of distress. 

“A doctor ! Quick, a doctor." 

Councilor Boudois, a learned and distin- 
guished man, leaned over the body, tore off the 
garments, felt the heart, and in accents of ter- 
ror exclaimed : 

“ He has broken a blood vessel ! ” 

A mournful stillness reigned in the hall, 
every one hurrying around the dying man. 

He did not move ; and in the silence noth- 
ing was heard but the death rattle getting 

*9 


290 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

weaker and weaker; life was slowly ebbing 
out. 

Still, once he moved his head, and a few con- 
fused words came out of his lips. 

“ Marcel ! you, too poor poor ” 

A heavy sigh, and the head fell back. 

When the doctors arrived, everything was 
over. Count Brutus Besnard was dead, dying 
as he had prayed to die : stricken standing in 
a supreme battle for duty. 

The God of Notre Dame, the Christ with the 
gentle smile, had not deceived him. He had 
taken mercy on him. He had given him the 
divine kiss of peace. 


VIII 


MISUNDERSTOOD SOBS 




A ND during that time, in the house of the 
Avenue de Breteuil, Marie- Anne was await- 
ing her father. 

That day she had not gone out, preferring to 
remain alone with her melancholy thoughts. 
Sitting before her piano, making it sing, laugh 
and cry in turn under her clever fingers, she had 
for several hours lost herself in music and 
dreams. A certain melody, especially, the one 
she had formerly heard in Cornouailles, would 
come back again and again, monotonous and 
sad : 

To lie in a fine veil, 

The soft veil which surrounds us 
And clothes us in the earth ; 

For to-morrow I shall be dead. 

But suddenly she stopped and blushed. 
Marcel had just entered. 

Quickly the deformed girl left the piano. 
She turned around and, like a culprit caught 
in the act, she timidly looked at her brother, 
scarcely able to utter a few words. 

“ You ! it is you ! At last ! At last ! ’ 

“ Is my father back?” asked the young man 
in a hollow voice. 


(293) 


294 THE court of napoleon III 

She did not answer at first ; the sinister 
expression on his face scared her ; however, she 
said : 

“ He was requested to call, this morning, 
upon the Prime Minister; but just now he 
must be at the Council ; urgent business, no 
doubt on account of yesterday's event — you 
know, the attack on the Emperor ! ” 

“ I know,” he said harshly ; “ I shall wait for 
him.” 

He took a seat, and bowed his head on his 
hands ; Marie-Anne stood looking at him, trem- 
bling, and not daring to approach him. 

He was the first to break the silence ; now 
his voice was gentle, but his words solemn. 

“ Marie-Anne, an order from the Government 
obliges me to leave to-night, for a long indefi- 
nite journey. I came to ask pardon from my 
father for all the grief I have caused him. I 
am very much in need of his blessing ! ” 

He stopped a moment; then, making an 
effort to smile : 

“And you too, little Marie-Anne, if I have 
at times troubled your pious mind, your good, 
beautiful and saintly soul, pardon me, dear 
sister ; pardon a sick man ” 

She uttered a cry, and rushing to her 
brother, embraced him. 

“ Marcel ! Oh ! Marcel, why do you speak so ? 
You hide some dreadful secret from us; you 


MISUNDERSTOOD SOBS 295 

are meditating some folly ; you — oh ! mon Dieu, 
he is going to do like our grandfather — he is 
going to kill himself for that woman ! That 
woman ! ” 

Roughly the young man pushed the poor girl 
away ; his face again assumed its stern expres- 
sion, he clinched his fists with rage : 

“ That woman ? That woman ! I know her no 
more ! ” 

But the poor deformed girl fell on her knees 
by the desperate man. 

“ Do you speak the truth? If so, I, at last, 
bless God for his mercy ! Why, then, do you 
stay away from us ? Why this sudden de- 
parture ? Remain, Oh ! remain, I pray you ! 
We will love you so much that your poor 
wounded heart will soon be cured ! Remain, 
out of pity for me ; I have suffered so much 
from your sufferings, cried so much when 
you cried ! You know, Marcel, we are very 
much alike, and the same blood indeed flows in 
our veins. You do not care, do you, if I speak as 
I do ? if I compare myself to you ? — I so homely ! 
No, do not tell me again that I am pretty ; 
your eyes belie your language. I know myself 
too well. I am homely and deformed ; a sub- 
ject for scorn or raillery. I have only my 
voice in my favor, and you, naughty boy, never 
deign to listen to my singing ! When I am dead 
— for I hope, I pray that I may die before you — 


296 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

I wish that the organ of the church should play 
this Breton melody which we heard together at 
Audierne and which you said made one so sad. 
O ! the sweet, the dear remembrances ! Then, 
rocked by the sweet song, the heart of your 
poor Marie-Anne will stir in its coffin, and 
from it a sigh of affection may perhaps reach 
you ; it will be the soul, yes, the whole soul of 
your poor little sister.” 

She said all this in a rambling way, inter- 
rupted by sobs and laughter. He was not 
listening to her, nor did he seem to see her ; 
only, with a mechanical movement of the hand, 
he stroked the long hair of the girl kneeling 
before him, and thought of another. 

At that moment the door opened gently, and 
the old Philomene entered discreetly. 

“ Mademoiselle, can you receive a caller? A 
lady would like to speak to you. She is in 
tears and seems to be beside herself with grief. 
She refuses to go and says she shall wait, if 
necessary, the return of the Count.” And the 
servant handed her a card. 

Marie-Anne took it and turned deathly pale. 

“ No ! No ! Call the servants ! Put her 
out ! ” 

But, almost at once, the door flew open, and 
a wild looking woman entered the room. 

It was the Princess di Carpegna ! 


THAT WOMAN 








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W HEN she perceived Marcel, the young 
woman uttered an exclamation of almost 
insane joy : 

“He! He! Free! They have not killed 
him ! ” 

And she ran towards her lover, as if to rush 
into his arms. A gesture from him stopped 
her short. 

He had become fearfully pale ; words choked 
him ; he could not speak ; one could see that if 
he had a knife within reach, he would kill her 
on the spot. 

“ You ! ” he stammered at last, “ you here — 
What have you come for?” 

Frightened at first by the explosion of his 
wrath she receded a few steps ; soon, however, 
she advanced gently, caressingly and in the 
most innocent way possible, saying : 

“ What do I come here for, my friend ? But — 
since you are free — I come to take you away 
with me.” 

A burst of laughter was the answer, a furious, 
insulting laugh. 


(299) 


300 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

“ Enough ! Stop this comedy ! Leave this 
place ! ” 

“ No ! No ! No ! ” she repeated resolutely. 

“ Marie-Anne, darling/’ said Marcel, “ I wish 
to speak to this woman ; leave us alone a mo- 
ment.” 

The young girl heeded him not. Standing in 
a corner of the room, she darted toward the in- 
truder looks burning with hatred ; at the same 
time studying her, analyzing her, comparing 
her with herself. And she thought : 

“Yes, indeed, she is beautiful, this heart- 
breaker, with her wavy black hair, her large 
velvety eyes, her arched brows, her dark com- 
plexion and chiseled profile, her voluptuous 
shape, and the insolent ease of her whole per- 
son ! Truly beautiful ! though a wretch ! And 
it is for the like of her that God has in store 
treasures of love and happiness ! Oh ! — And 
He is called a kind God — ” 

“ Come ! little sister, leave us alone,” repeated 
Marcel impatiently. “ There must be an end to 
this ! In two words, I shall have settled with 
her ! ” And as the “ little sister ” appeared not 
to hear, he gently took her hand to lead her out 
of the room. Then, without any resistance, 
like a sick child obeying the gentle touch of 
its mother, Marie-Anne slowly crossed the room, 
once more looked at her brother, and went out. 

“ Now, Madame ! ” cried Marcel, standing be- 


THAT WOMAN 


301 


fore the Princess di Carpegna, “ to begin with, 
let me say for the last time, what do you come 
here for ? ” 

The young woman had quietly taken a seat, 
and even unhooked her traveling cloak. 

“ I told you already,” she said, affecting the 
greatest ease ; “ since, against all hope, I find 
you again, I come to take you away with me — 
to elope with you ” 

She was looking at him with passionate love 
in her eyes. He raised his fist, but his hand 
fell at his side, and an ignominious appellation 
fell from his lips : 

“ You, harlot ! ” 

Under the blow of the insult, she closed her 
eyes, and her face flushed a deep red. Then, 
very gently, she answered : 

“ Is it really you, Marcel, you who speak thus 
to me? Oh !” 

Her voice was low and tender, her forehead 
bent, resigned to insult, her velvety eyes caress- 
ing the insulter. He drew back, ashamed of his 
degrading outburst. 

A few minutes passed on in silence ; and all 
the while she was fascinating him with her look 
and smile. Finally, she said, rising: 

“Come, beloved, let us hurry ! Yesterday, I 
was taken to the frontier, by the police, and 
forbidden to reenter Paris or France. Still, 
here I am ! But, I am afraid lest they separate 


302 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

us, for they must be on my track ! Quick, 
quick, let us be off! ” 

She came nearer, as if to take hold of his 
arm and drag him away. He stood there, 
with his teeth firmly set together, his throat 
parched, the muscles of his face contracted, and 
his eyes flashing. Roughly his anger burst 
forth : 

“ Get out of here ! go, I say ! Don’t you 
see that I am going to kill you ? ” 

She slightly shrugged her shoulders, and, 
taking an armchair, sat down again. 

“ Kill me ? What nonsense — when we are 
going to be happy forever ! for I am free, my 
friend, free and truly a widow, this time ” 

Bewildered in the presence of this resolute 
calm, Marcel could utter nothing but a new 
insult : 

“ Courtesan ! ” 

This time, the young woman raised her 
head, and looking firmly at the man, said : 

“ All right, I accept the word ! So you no 
longer want to have me for a wife? As you 
please ! What do I care for what the fools or 
the envious may think. Only let us be to- 
gether always, yes, always ! Come, do not 
threaten me any more ; I am not to be fright- 
ened ; and please, do not laugh so ; you grieve 
me ! ” 

He was laughing indeed — an insane, hollow 


THAT WOMAN 


303 


laugh. He despised himself for not having yet 
grabbed her and thrown her out of the room. 

It was indeed foolish to show so much weak- 
ness and patience, and to waste so much indig- 
nation upon such a consummate actress. 

“ Bravo ! ” he exclaimed sneeringly. “ Well 
done, my lady ! The day before yesterday, the 
drama ; to-day, the pastorale ! La Savelli can 
act every part ! ” 

With one bound Madame di Carpegna was 
close to him. 

“ La Savelli ! Yes ! my name is La Savelli, 
now ! Goodby to the society lady, the noble 
lady, the Princess ! I am now La Savelli again ! 
Be it so ! I take back my name. I am proud 
of it ! It is the name of an honest man, of a 
hero, of a martyr whom your Emperor and 
your father have murdered, and whom I was 
bent upon avenging ! ” 

“ You wretch ! ” 

“ No, say : you unfortunate ! Yes, I was bent 
upon avenging this death which haunts me 
during the day, and, at night, shows me the 
bleeding wounds in his breast ! Ah ! to throw 
upon your Emperor the son of his Prosecutor 
General, and make them kill each other! To 
cause Count Besnard to shed as many and as 
cruel tears as I have shed ! What a delightful 
dream ! But, no, I have not had the strength ; 
no, I have not been able to act my part to the 


304 the court OF NAPOLEON III 


end ! I have loved you cowardly, and I do love 
you, I love you, I love you ! ” 

The words now flew out of her mouth, dis- 
connected, but full of passion, both eloquent 
and commonplace. This passionate woman, ap- 
peared now what she truly was, both high and 
low born. And in her excitement, La Savelli was 
really superb. Confronting this anger, Marcel 
Besnard felt his own wrath little by little giving 
way to pity ; he detested her yet — at least, he 
thought so — but he could not insult her any 
more. 

“ Do you not know that I truly adore you ? ” 
she said after a short pause; “ for I know the 
whole story, my poor Marcel, yes, the whole of 
it ! Marino — you remember Marino, the pro- 
fessor of music, alias Traventi ; he has managed 
to escape over to Belgium — Marino told me in 
Brussels the abominable story of the bunch of 
wild roses. A snare from this Carpegna, 
my despicable husband ! O ! it was not I who 
sent it ; upon my ; word it was not. And you, 
my poor simpleton, you were caught in the 
net. You loved me so much that as soon as 
you received the humble flowers from your 
Rosina, you went in quest of her. Carino , mio 
carino ! Do you love me then so much ? O ! 
how happy that Traventi has made me ! 
Come, you do not know the heart of your 
friend. I thought that you were in prison, 


THAT WOMAN 


305 


and I came to throw myself at your father’s’ 
feet — he, the murderer of mine! It would have 
been ignominious, would it not? but I love you 
better than my filial honor ! I wanted to see 
your judges. I would have saved you by accus- 
ing myself. Once free, Marcel, I would have 
taken you far away ; if they had transported 
you, I would have followed you to the galleys ; 
if they had sentenced you to die, I would have 
taken poison and died at the foot of your scaf- 
fold ! I love you ! I love you ! Oh ! how I 
love you ! ” 

Carried away by her passion, she had seized 
her lover’s arm. 

“ Come ! let us go,” she said for the third 
time. 

He repulsed her again, but more feelingly. 

“You must go back to Brussels alone, Ma- 
dame. I remain ; I am sentenced ” 

“^Sentenced? What folly, when you are free, 
when you are here. When ” 

“To-morrow at this time I shall be dead.” 

“Dead! What a horrible word! You 
dead! How you say that! So calm, so re- 
signed, so resolute, yet without anger. Oh ! 
how you frighten me, Marcel. A minute ago 
you insulted me, you raised your fist to strike 
me, but I was very calm ; the tremor of your 
voice contradicted the violence of your speech ! 
But now — -yes, I am really afraid. Come. 

20 


306 the court of NAPOLEON III 

Say, are you trying to revenge yourself on me ? 
Do you want to enjoy my terror to see how 
much I adore you ? No, no ; do not try me so, 
I pray you. Do not. Ah ! don’t you know 
that if you must die, I must die with you? ” 

“ My life is no longer mine,” said Marcel. 
“ To avoid the degradation of having my name 
dragged into court, I have promised to kill 
myself before to-morrow — and I will do it. 
This is why I am at large.” 

She uttered a wild cry, and fell on her knees 
at his feet. 

“ Ah, mon Dieu ! Ah ! mon Dieu ! I under- 
stand. And it is those bandits, the Ministers 
of Napoleon, who force you to do this — the 
rascals, the rascals ! They are playing upon 
your honor, playing upon your father’s honor! 
Yes, the rascals ; and a hundred times more to 
be despised than we who tried to rid France of 
him and of them. But you shall not obey, 
Marcel. Oh! do not repulse me. Have 
pity. Pardon ! Pardon ! Wretch that I am, it 
is I who kill him. Yes, perdita ; for I am the 
cause of his death. Pardon ! Pardon ! ” 

And her reproaches were intermixed with 
sobs and insults to herself. She had taken hold 
of him, and he, drawing back, dragged her on the 
floor. Suddenly, even roughly, Marcel raised 
her in his arms, kissed her wildly and 
cried : 


THAT WOMAN 30 7 

“ Come, I love you yet ! Well, let us die to- 
gether ! ” 

It was getting dark. In this room where 
they embraced each other, the cold winter twi- 
light, lengthening every shadow, made things 
appear huge and indistinct. He had an arm 
around her waist and her head rested on his 
shoulder. They were starting to go, when 
gently, Marcel freed himself. 

Crossing the room, he went towards the arm- 
chair where his father usually sat ; he reli- 
giously knelt down, and leaning his head on the 
faded tapestry addressed a prayer to the absent 
one, with his last good-by — 

It was the very hour when, in the tumult of 
the Council chamber, Count Besnard was utter- 
ing his shriek of agony ; the hour when his 
dying voice called his son and pardoned him. 

Then the son and his mistress departed hand 
in hand. 






V v 

I 



X 

AT HIGH TIDE 




















t 




d 







T HAT night the wind suddenly began to 
blow from the northwest. It grew colder, 
and soon the gale forced into the channel the 
great tide of the Atlantic, and, from Cape 
Saint-Mathieu to the point of Gris-Nez, the 
coast of France was white with foam. The 
waves dashed upon the Norman coast with 
especial violence ; whole rows of cliffs crumbled 
into the sea, and in Cayeux and the bay of the 
Somme the church bells continuously tolled 
for ships in distress. For a long time after, the 
women of Fecamp and of the two Saint-Valerys 
remembered that night of horrors which 
deprived them of husbands or sons. 

The dawn was whitening the horizon ; day- 
light was coming. 

What a dawn ! In the east a dim light, the 
uncertain gray of hanging snow ; but over the 
furious sea, the immensity was dark. A thick, 
opaque mist extended to the horizon, and, 
under this veil, one could hear the raging sea 
bounding and falling with a frightful noise. 

Already on land the Angelus was resounding. 
At the bottom of the hill of Sasseville, in the 

( 3 IX ) 


312 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

wall which surrounded the park a gate opened, 
and two forms glided out in the shadow of the 
valley of the Dalles. 

They were hurrying in the tempest towards 
the noisy ocean. Marcel Besnard was calm 
and kept silent ; but Rosina di Carpegna was 
talking, as if to keep herself in a state of 
exaltation. 

“ Yes, you were right, my handsome lover, to 
choose such a grand bed to wash my sins 
in — the bed of the deep, deep ocean ” 

He smiled ; and they walked on, hand in 
hand. At a turning of the road, they came into 
the center of the hurricane, and were soon 
covered with foam and salt. 

Rosina stopped short : 

“Oh!” she said, in a strange tone, “how 
cold we shall be in there.” 

“ In there” was the shroud she said she 
yearned for — the ocean. 

They went on ; but the woman more slowly ; 
her feet were sluggish and her walk heavy ; 
now, she "also was silent. 

Both reached the shore. Piles of broken 
rocks separated them from the beach ; they 
went over them ; then these companions in 
death reached the sand through pools of chilly 
water. 

The tide was coming in ; but far away yet, 
it was besieging a bank of reefs — the Catelet. 





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AT HIGH TIDE 


313 


In the mist one could not see it ; but it 
made itself heard ; its great waves struck the 
obstacle with a thundering noise. Then, in the 
roaring of the tempest, there was a moment of 
calm, a groan, a sob and the noise would begin 
anew more terrific than ever. 

The woman burst out laughing : 

“ Listen, my darling ! The monster is call- 
ing us ! ” 

She stooped down, picked up a stone, and 
with all her might, threw it at this howling 
thing. 

Yes, indeed, it was calling, and with all the 
power of its ragged waves, crying under the 
torture inflicted by the hurricane. The light, 
clearer now, allowed the eye to distinguish 
something through the fog. And they could 
see stretched before them, in a semicircle, the 
enormous waves ; greenish yellow, streaked 
with white like big, foamy mouths advancing 
threateningly. Whipped by the wind, the sea 
made tremendous efforts to overcome the ob- 
stacle formed by the reefs, and, bounding over, 
fell in white foam on their dark, ragged points, 
and then drew back whirling frightfully; the 
Catelet was fast disappearing. Already the 
waves rushed on the beach. A little while 
longer, and the abyss would be near them, 
above them 

Immovable, Rosina was looking on. Suddenly 


314 THE court OF NAPOLEON III 

she shivered all over. Her face turned deathly 
pale ; her teeth chattered. 

“ How cold you are ! ” said Marcel, calmly 
and gently. 

“No,” she said, “ I am afraid ! ” 

He turned around to look at his companion. 
Yes, she was afraid. Her features were dis- 
torted, her cheeks cadaverous, her mouth wide 
open, her neck stretched stiff towards this ad- 
vancing death. In the grey light of dawn, her 
terror-stricken face was hideous to behold. 

Brusquely, the woman turned round and 
rushed toward the land. In a moment Marcel 
was by her side. 

“ Rosina ! my Rosina! Have a little cour- 
age ! Only a minute of anguish, and ” 

“ No, no, no ! ” she shrieked. “ I will not ! 
I cannot! ” 

He was now trying to take hold of her hand. 
She repulsed him wildly. 

“ I will not ! I cannot ! I do not love you 
enough for that ! ” 

And again she started for land — for life. 

With a few bounds he was again by her side. 

“Ah! wretched woman,” he cried, “ cowardly 
heart ! You must stay by me ! ” 

He seized her arm, and, twisting her wrist, 
threw her down on the sand. She was fighting 
now, with almost superhuman strength, calling 
all the time for help. 


AT HIGH TIDE 


315 


“ Help ! Help ! Murder ! It is an abominable 
outrage ! I do not belong to you! Help ! Yes, 
it is an outrage ! Leave me alone ! Let me go ! 
I do not love you ! I have never loved you ! 
Help ! ” 

But all was in vain. The wind drowned her 
voice ; .no watchman was on the shore to hear 
her. Pale with rage and horror, Marcel held 
her down. 

“ You have never loved me, you say? The 
confession comes rather late, my beauty! Well, 
you are going to love me in Eternity ! ” 

And with his knees on her breast, with both 
his clenched hands, he kept her head down in 
the frozen mud. She was tearing him with her 
nails and teeth, spitting in his face, insulting 
him. 

“^Wretch ! wretch ! Vile, despicable man ! Son 
of an assassin ! I tell you, I tell you, I will 
live ! ! ” 

She appeared now as she really was, a wholly 
abject, cowardly, despicable creature. Still 
she howled : 

“A priest ! Oh, a priest ! ” 

In the face of death, the Italian woman was 
afraid of hell. 

All of a sudden, the hands which held her 
down let go of their prey. Marcel Besnard 
arose, his eyes wide open as if trying to pene- 
trate the unknown, his face with the expres- 


3 16 THE COURT OF NAPOLEON III 

sion of religious dread ; and yet his lips were 
smiling. 

He fell on his knees. 

“ Father/’ he whispered. 

With one bound, La Savelli was on her feet ; 
a second more and she was rushing towards the 
shore and climbing the steep cliff. 

“ Father ! Oh, father!” repeated the pros- 
trate son. 

In the distance the fleeing form of Rosina 
was fast disappearing in the shadow of the 
valley and was soon lost in the morning mist. 

Then the son of Count Besnard lay down on 
the beach very calm. Already the immense 
shroud was advancing towards him. He 
crossed his hands on his heart and remained 
perfectly still, waiting 

What vision could have visited him at this 
dreadful hour, to make him pardon her for all 
the excruciating grief she had caused him? 
Perhaps, though, the sublime light, which, they 
say, appears resplendent before the eyes of 
dying men and allows them to gaze into eter- 
nity was now shining over him — he had fathomed 
the mystery of his expiatory love, and he ac- 
cepted the expiation. Perhaps, also, in that 
unknown world, where life born of death 
peoples the Infinite ; where the Invisible is look- 
ing at us, embracing us, suffering with all our 
sufferings, mingling its tears with ours, on the 


AT HIGH TIDE 


317 


threshold of immortality, the soul of the 
father was there to receive and comfort the 
soul of his child. 


EPILOGUE 


FEW years ago, he who has just brought 



i \ back to memory this lamentable story, was 
visiting the Insane Asylum at Bailleul, in Flan- 
ders. I was not the only one making this sad 
visit : there were two other persons there, both 
strangers to me, a man and a woman. Of the 
man, there is nothing to say ; he was the con- 
ventional gentleman of leisure. The other, 
the woman, was showily dressed and berouged, 
and evidently belonged to the demi-monde ; 
she had passed the years of youth. Doubtless 
one of those women whose ignominious 
triumphs prove but too well what our vaunted 
civilization is really worth — organized and con- 
ducted without God, and of course against Him. 

A nun of the order of the Good Shepherd 
was guiding us around. 

When we reached the quarters reserved for 
imbeciles, the woman asked : 

“ Is it not here that the daughter of Count 
Brutus Besnard is shut up ? ” 

At these words, a poorly dressed creature 
crouching in a corner, rushed towards us, madly 
crying : 


(318) 


EPILOGUE 319 

“ It is she ! Kill her ! Kill her ! ” And the 
poor imbecile fell into frightful convulsions. 

The woman, strangely enough, had grown 
very pale ; she clung to the arm of her com- 
panion, and hurriedly went out — to her destiny. 


THE END 





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